ON A good day, as a parent, I sometimes wish I could split myself in two.

So, as you can imagine, when both my kids fell ill a couple of weeks ago, I really wished I could have been drawn and quartered.

My mother, who helps to mind my two young sons while I am at work, rang me in a panic about my kids – Julian, four, and Lucien, nine months old.

“You’d better come home,” she said. “Julian is throwing up uncontrollably and Lucien is covered in spots, even on his palms and soles.”

Fearing hand, foot and mouth disease, and goodness knows what else, I fired off a few SMSes to the Supportive Spouse (SS), who replied that he was in the middle of writing a mid-afternoon report and was unable to get away just then.

I, too, was bracing myself for an end-of-week rush. But I asked for some time off from my boss, who did not hesitate to give me a few hours off to take the kids to the doctor.

I jumped into a taxi, picked up Julian – weak and pale from puking his guts out – and saw the general practitioner near our home, who diagnosed a stomach virus. After taking his medicine, Julian seemed better. Lucien also seemed better; his spots had faded a little and he had fallen fast asleep. After checking that they were fine and comfortable, I went back to work.

“You’re a supermum!” texted the SS sincerely, when I sent him a status report on the kids. But, as I drove like a madwoman back to the office, a bubble of resentment started to form in my chest. Why, I fumed,  was I always the one who must drop everything to attend to the kids?

Stress, I admit, made me forget the countless times my husband helped out and took the initiative when it came to our kids’ needs. I worked myself into a self-righteous lather about equality of genders in the household, and the perceived weight that each of us pulled.

That evening, I exploded. I hurled accusations at the SS about not offering to be the one to take the children to the doctor early that day.

The SS and I managed to work through the issue – mostly thanks to his patience as I ranted and raved. We decided that we would, as far as possible, share the burden of tending to our boys if they fell ill while we were at work.

He would take time off more quickly, and I would be less passive-aggressive when I wanted him to chip in. And just because he does not panic and wail, thinking that the kids are going to die the moment they fall ill, as I do, does not mean that he cares less about them. Thank goodness we worked it out.

A few hours after we resolved our disagreement, baby Lucien woke up with a bad allergic reaction. As I held his small, splotchy and red body in my arms, he bawled with distress as his eyes were swollen shut.

“I want to take him to the hospital,” I whispered worriedly to my husband. He said nothing, but immediately changed out of his pyjamas, packed Lucien’s supplies and carried the baby. On the way to the A&E department, he efficiently made calls to our medical- insurance company, and phoned various hospitals to find out which one had a paediatrician on call.

In the end, the doctor we consulted prescribed a round of asthma medication delivered through a vapour system, as Lucien’s allergic reaction had temporarily
affected his breathing. Our baby began to look and feel much better.

As the three of us left the hospital, stepping into the crisp morning air at 5am, I felt thankful for our little medical adventure.

With big brother Julian fast asleep at home, and our helper in the next room, it was one of those rare occasions when Lucien had both parents to himself.

As a trio, we were happy.

And, in our marriage, his Papa and I had acquired the ability to split apart and remain whole.

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