Month: September 2013

Let’s Talk Puke

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Guttural, from her core, one of my daughters got sick last night. As I write this and as you read it, you know. You cringe for her because you know. You’ve done it, you’ve cleaned it up for someone else, you’ve watched it happen.

I am phobic about vomit. No, let me be more specific. I am phobic about the stomach virus.

Fever? Come cuddle.
Cough? Let me grace your forehead with a kiss.
Heaving all night? Do not come within ten miles, give or take, of my breathing space.

I can be cool, calm, collected if my son gets carsick. There is hardly a chance that I’ll be doing the same in 24 hours so, be my guest. Let me comfort you. I’ll even pick it up with my bare hands. OK, no. That’s too far.
But if one the kids does the midnight whisper, “Mom, I threw up,” I am nearly in the fetal position trembling and diagnosing my own abdomen for any signs that I don’t feel good.

It may surprise you to know that in spite of this, I often am the parent who’s up with the ill, holds the bowl, cleans the mess (albeit with rubber gloves), because I am Mom. I run drink errands, wash and rinse, play movies incessantly. I am also the parent who most frequently gets the virus. When I do, it’s like I’ve been through war. I talk about it as if I’ve just gotten back from overseas where I’ve seen horrendous acts of violence and narrowly survived. I return from this dark place a hero.

But if I haven’t had it yet, I enter ritual mode. I walk the house armed in plastic, holding bleach water. Every touchable surface gets a cleansing, every fabric Lysoled. I wash my hands so much they crack. 
I try to control my fate. This is partly due to my genetic predisposition to panic disorder (which I’ve battled my entire life and will blog about another day). And what I’ve learned about the disorder is that its greatest defeater, its best cure, is to walk at with both arms swinging.

So let’s do this thing.   

Truly Rich

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Freshly picked, my youngest demanded to be held. She’d just finished a few hours of finger painting, picture book reading, rug time singing, snack devouring, preschool heaven. And I just finished being in heaven, elsewhere.

Through the heavy glass doors of the church, the heat came at us like a dog out of its cage. Intensely. But still less so than the meltdown my dear toddler would have if I forced her to walk. Often she has to deal with these kinds of injustices but when it’s just her and me, so close to another couple hours of naptime freedom, I oblige.

As we approached our car I saw a new, pearl white SUV stop perfectly between the lines in the next space. Leather. Limited. License plates that wore the pride of a Disable Veteran.

Luxury comes with silver linings, I thought. The kind after you fight for your country, or on your head, or after many years of work and service and life. Yes, please take the handicapped section. All of it if you like. You, have, earned it.

But luxury doesn’t always come with age. It is not a guarantee. I think of this as I turn the pages of my husband’s copy of his late grandfather’s book. I think of Grandma, still with us, happily driving her old Subaru. She was giddy when they bought that thing all those years ago, and I wonder if she’ll ride it up to Glory someday. For now it sits before her small home, with her old decorations, when she isn’t gallivanting to seniors groups.

I love the seasoned of our society. And I love her.

The beautiful sun spots on her arms shadow the tireless work beside her beloved at their ranch. A ranch they devoted to sharing with other people. The gray that touches her neck came from raising four riotous boys and one sweet girl whom I assume was worried over just a much.
She is not fancy, she does not flaunt, and if you asked her to pick the one thing in her house of the greatest value, she’d most assuredly point to the wall-sized (I am not even joking, it’s gigantic) family portrait in her living room.

And it makes me think, she’s the one that is truly rich.  

One Bite Feels Like a Dozen

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Don’t go outside wearing a neon shirt at dusk. Just don’t.

“Mosquitos will be out,” I thought and forgot in an instant. Cool, quiet air greeted my entrance onto the porch as crickets began to warm up their legs for the ballad we often get after bedtime. This was my clue. But I got cocky.

Coiled on the side of our house I took the hose from its hanger and sprayed my flowers, my babies, when the first one found me. I felt the pinch as he feasted, the brat. Minutes later, I’m scratching.

But one bite feels like a dozen, have you noticed? I’m watering, and swatting, and I become paranoid. Before I know it I’m putting nails to my head, both my arms, the dip between my collarbone, my eyelid. I am a sight. The neighbors may be listing come Tuesday.

So take it from me, if you choose neon, wait until day.