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Moms don’t get sick, right? We’re indestructible pillars of strength that just muscle through it and keep on going.    After all, in my own crazy, screwed-up world, there’s a heaping pile of personal guilt to be had should we take a brief break for recovery.

Growing up, my own family didn’t really believe in a little sickness getting in the way. Dad once fell off the roof, flew past the kitchen window where I was washing the dishes, dusted himself off and carried on – like falling 20 feet and landing flat on your back on to a stone floor wasn’t a big deal. He’d hobble up ladders to paint the ceiling with a plaster cast on his leg, and needed to be heavily persuaded to put down the tools and head to hospital after a tangle with a tile cutter.

Dad’s bumps and scrapes seemed an acceptable part of life.

Mom, on the other hand, never got sick.

On the very few occasions when she was ill, my world felt like it stopped. I didn’t know what to do. The amazing woman who kept our daily lives ticking along was suddenly human with the ability to become so ill she had to (gasp!) lie down during the day time. I’m not talking simply flopping on the sofa and taking it easy. I mean heading to the bedroom (the door of which was shut – a gesture with such gravity that we instinctively dared not disturb her). 

That she was giving herself the permission to put herself first for once was totally alien to me. 

So, when the flu knocked me flat recently (not the stomach kind, just the regular one – but truly, that was bad enough), I spent the first 24 hours in denial, reluctantly taking medication because, really, I was probably just run down.

I rose with optimism on the second day, only to realise that it was going to take more than a positive attitude to shake it and felt awful guilt for asking my husband to stay at home, for a second day, to help with the kids because, really, I should just be able to cope.

Surely on the third day I’d feel better, so I scheduled a few work things and instantly regretted it when I got up. Still, it was the first day that I didn’t feel like curling in a ball and giving up, so it was a huge improvement.

What I’m trying to say is that I am my mom! And truly, that’s not a bad thing because she’s a wonderful woman. But I’m also a fool. I could have recovered faster if I’d just heeded my husband’s loving nagging to go lie down and stop making dinner or emptying the dishwasher. But that would have been admitting that I was fallible – something I’m still struggling with.

I was lucky to have my partner’s more-than-willing help (forget romantic gestures, it’s when you look and feel your most awful and are still loved that you feel the most supported).

Many of us in ÀÏ°ÄÃÅÁùºÏ²Ê¿ª½±¼Ç¼×ÊÁÏ, though, are far away from friends and family, and support may not always be nearby. Sometimes we have great neighbours but other times, we don’t. So, if there’s anything, anything at all, that you need help with, please reach out to our incredible network of moms. Or to me. We’re all facing the same struggles. Don’t do it alone. Just ask. Someone will respond, I promise.