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I was walking along, leading my life, not bothering anyone I know of, and wham- mo. In bed, 10-day sentence, no moving violations. Me, innocent ole' me. The flu._ First, I nursed my nine-year- old daughter through it. She had a mild case, easily treated with prescription cough syrup, chick- en soup, and over-the-counter tablets for fever and aches. The primary instrument of her four- day cure was the double-fold mag- ic of being allowed to loll all day in Mommy and Daddy's big bed and being allowed to watch nearly un- limited hours of video tapes. She bounced back in short order, im- pelled by episodes of "Avonlea" and old Broadway musicals. My mother, who never lied to me before, told me specifically when she nursed me as a child, spooning straight Coca-Cola syrup into me to fight colds and sore throats, "Mommies don't catch things from their children." She said this so I wouldn't worry. And, as a matter of fact, she never seemed to catch our bugs. Now, why couldn't I inherit that along with a love of Brie cheese and an ability to type fast? In- stead, I stroke one little fevered brow, cook a pot of soup, and I'm out for a week-and-a-half. I don't remember being this sick in my adult life, at least, not this sick unaccompanied by major surgery. I literally sank into the bed and stayed there, regretting my life as Florence Nightingale, my respiratory state, and my in- ability to do anything at all about anything at all. Miraculously (and through the vehicles of a simply superb hus- band, great neighbors, and a pretty darn good part-time house- keeper) the things that had to get done got done. The carpools rolled, the meals appeared, two Shabbats came and went. I fell behind in my work. I blearily watched cable cooking shows because I couldn't stomach either the everlasting O.J. trial or the vulturous talk shows. Therefore, the one positive re- sult of being sick (other than los- ing three pounds) was that now I know — at least in theory— how to make a coeur de creme, haggis, and Thai Steamed Fish with juli- enned vegetables and coconut milk. Then again, coeur de creme isn't on my diet, haggis is nearly unthinkable, and the kids won't eat fish unless it comes in little logs and is breaded and fried. Maybe one night I'll make the steamed fish and the heart- shaped confection for my husband; I think he's earned it. During this siege, he schlepped for two, parented three, and pre- pared vast quantities of macaroni and cheese (which he hates) for the children and gallons of tea for me. I don't know what he ate or how he managed; I was uncon- scious at the time. I do remember that each time I stirred from my stupor he seemed to have two aspirin, a cup of tea, and one or two carefully se- lected domestic questions waiting for me. My children would tiptoe in, whisper a few concerns, and tiptoe out. I was careful in partic- ular to reassure the nine-year-old. "This is a very different flu from the one you had, honey," I promised her. "I have a sore chest, and you didn't. And my legs hurt, and yours didn't. I must have caught this someplace else." And then I smiled at her through my antihistamine-haze and cheerfully lied, "You know, sweetie," I told her, "Mommies don't catch things from their chil- dren." Wait A Minute But Don't Waste It ERICA MEYER RAUZIN SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS T hat part of my life which is not spent cooking, chasing children, typing or sorting socks is spent waiting. In the carpool line. In the checkout line. In the interchangeable ante- rooms of countless doctors' and dentists' offices. At the orthodontist's office, the waiting room is skinny and rec- tangular. No phone. No toys. Old issues of Smithsonian and Bet- ter Homes and Gardens. Ninety percent of the patients are chil- dren, and there isn't a thing for them. In the pediatrician's waiting room, an abundance oftoys await, WAIT A MINUTE page 57