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Illustration by Alex Siklos
I often have one of our children home sick with me. I used to complain and say, “Not again!” But we have four kids, and as my husband and I remind each other: This is what we signed up for. Over the past year, I’ve started to shift my mindset. Now, when someone’s sick, I tell myself – and them – that today is the best day ever.
I learned to reframe the day as a chance to create something magical, even something tiny. It’s not just for them. It’s for you, too.
Parents throw around the term “survival mode” a lot, even when the stress is mild. But stress – big or small – still shifts the energy in a room. Kids feel it. And they’re too young to carry that weight. I try to be conscious of what I’m projecting, because the more lightness I bring, the more safety and space they feel to just be kids.
Of course, having a sick child at home can throw the whole day off. It sucks – as my three-year-old recently learned to say. You’re stuck. Plans are ruined; nothing gets done. But sometimes I imagine myself years from now, and I know: I’d love to come back to one of these days – slow and tender sick days when magic unfolded because I chose to rewrite the story.
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The magic is in the simplest things. We guess what the birds are singing to each other. We tickle backs – “siri-siri,” my Estonian grandma used to call it, her made-up word that’s now woven into our family language. We use my phone as a magical magnifying glass to find invisible elves – päkapikud, in Estonian – hiding in corners of our home. I upload photos of our rooms and bring in friendly dragons and creatures using AI. One day, my daughter declared, “That dragon is making my carpet dirty!” We turned her preschool retelling into a full-on saga.
We spray lavender mist on pillows and call it fairy spray. We lay out clothes for the next day and name them “scarecrows.” We dream up stories, make paintings come to life and build imaginary worlds together.
These sick-day experiences have led me to rethink our expensive summer plans for them, too.
When they are feeling well, we go on “midnight walks.” Not literally at midnight, but after dinner, in pyjamas, just before nightfall. Sometimes we get other parents in on it, and all our kids – wide-eyed in PJs – run into each other during our secret little adventure. The neighbourhood feels dreamier simply because it’s dark and we’re out later than usual. On summer nights, we stay up for a “midnight snack” with a single candle, a wish and some peanut butter toast with honey. We talk about our day.
These are the things they’ll remember – not the themed day camps or overscheduled summer programs. Don’t get me wrong: They’re still signed up for plenty of those, but I’ve learned not to confuse enrichment with memory-making. You don’t need to spend a dollar to create something meaningful. Our broken dishwasher once became a bubble station. A restaurant with a DJ became a dance floor for our family just because we let the kids get up and move. Sometimes it’s as simple as noticing how the sun glistens on the leaves or water and marvelling at how sparkly life can be.
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There’s a small window in childhood where everything still has the potential to be magic, where what you say becomes the truth. Where kids live in a state neurologists compare to a waking dream. They want to believe. And often, we need the reminder to believe alongside them.
I still remember hiding under the porch as a kid, clutching a glittery candy tube, whispering spells and hoping a unicorn would appear. I was probably too old to believe, but I didn’t want to let go. I still don’t. For as terrible as I think my memory is sometimes, that moment stuck.
Now, I watch my own kids chase sparks. Every night, we eat by candlelight or under twinkling lights. My toddler closes her eyes and says, “Thank you for all the rainbows in our tummies.” It started as a joke; now we all say it. Because it’s silly and sweet and strange – and it makes the moment stick.
I am flipping the script on what’s supposed to be meaningful and memorable. Sometimes, the highlight of a child’s week is helping a ladybug return to a leaf.
Let’s travel into their whimsical worlds. Sick days. Slow days. Off days. These aren’t the throwaway ones. Sometimes, they’re the whole point.
Kaili Colford lives in Toronto.
