So, it’s Memorial Day, a three day weekend, Kevin’s home, and the weather is great, and I’m sick. Yup. Sick. I’ve got the usual head cold with a fever, runny nose and wicked sore throat so pretty much, all plans are off. This sucks. Grrr.

Now, I have a strange fascination with sickness. I’m not at all squeamish at the sight of blood. I was the kid who kept peeking under her band-aid and picking at her scabs before they were ready to fall off. I adore poking and prodding all sorts of cuts and lesions and find myself over come with a strange morbid curiosity around wounds and cuts. Have a splinter you need pulled? I’m your girl. Have an ingrown toenail that you need dug out? Call me up! Oddly enough, Kevin has no stomach for my strange love of all things icky and he appears to derive no please what-so-ever from examining all my hurts and scraps. Odd, no?

So really, it’s no surprise that whenever I get sick, I delved willingly into every sick symptom. I marvel over the green color of my snot, I find myself almost giddy as I plot my rising temp and my all-time favorite sickness event is the viewing of the soar throat.

Ah yes, the unsurpassed joy of looking at a throat lined with white cold soars. Is there anything more fascinating, I ask you? Poor Kevin is frequently dragged into the bathroom with me to hold the flashlight while I admire my ravaged throat in all its red and white spotted glory. Unfortunately, now that we have kids, my joy is often squashed because finding a working flashlight in this house is about on par with finding a square foot of clean floor. It just ain’t happening people.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the disaster preparation. Living in Oregon for the last 10+ years, I’ve discovered that losing power is pretty much guaranteed. In case you didn’t know, we tend to get just a little bit of rain here over the winter months and power lines tend to drop like flies. For just this reason, I have strategically placed flashlights and candles throughout the house. In closets, drawers, and pantries I’ve stashed a torch or two so I don’t have to stumble around in the dark. Well, my love of cold sores is but a mere ember compared to my children’s bonfire of love for flashlights. To say they adore them is a severe understatement. Short of ice cream covered in sprinkles, nothing brings forth a squeal of glee in my kids like a flashlight. Go figure.

Now, here’s the problem. I open the coat closet to get a coat and Leina spots the flashlight I have thoughtfully stashed in there and her eyes grow as big as saucers.

“Oh, mommy, can I please, please, please have that flashlight?” she’ll ask dancing in place at the mere thought of getting her grubby mitts on it.

“No honey, that’s for emergencies only.” I’ll reply in my best mommy voice.

“But mommy, please! Just for a minute! I promise I’ll put it back when I’m done!” Leina will whine as she tugs mournfully at my leg.

“No Leina, every time I let you play with the flashlight you forget to turn it off and the batteries die. This is not a toy.”

“Please mommy, please!” Leina begs me, “I promise to turn it off when I’m done. I promise! I Promise! I Promise!”

About now, I begin to cave. I mean, it’s just a flashlight. I can pop in new batteries. It’s not like she’s asking to play with the kitchen knives.

“OK, but Leina?” I relent, “you have to give it back when you are done. OK?”

“Oh thank you mommy, thank you, thank you, you are the bestest mommy ever!” she shouts and runs right up to sister. Of course, she immediately begins waving the flashlight under Kulia’s nose and chants, “look what I’ve got, and you can’t have one, ’cause you’re a baby, na na na na na.”

Kulia, of course, reverts to her place of power and unleashes a scream/whine/cry in an octave that only a younger sibling unfairly scorned can reach. Toddling over to me, bottom lip quivering, big crocodile tears dripping slowly from her big eyes, she holds out her pudgy baby hand toward me and with a word of protest, I place the back-up flashlight into her little hand.

And they are off. They disappear for an hour or so doing who knows what with their hard won flashlights. I won’t actually see those flashlights for another 3 weeks when they will mysterious reappear in their underwear drawer or mixed in with my curling irons. Inevitably, the kids will be right next to me when they are unearthed and the whole dance will begin again.

So the kids are happy because they get their flashlights. Kevin is happy because he is no longer pulled into the bathroom and forced to inspect my throat sores. I’m the only one who suffers really but then, it really isn’t so bad because Leina thinks I am the best mom. Ever!