Lucky
So I said something a few weeks ago that has come back to haunt me. "Even on the worst days," I proclaimed, to Adam, "I know that I am lucky." I meant it, too, in those sweet, quiet moments after bedtime. The Spiderman Legos were tucked almost out of sight, everyone was healthy, the house was in decent order. I'm good at this, this mom thing. On a good day, I'm GREAT at this, and even on the bad days, I'm lucky. Lucky that I can be home to care for a sick kiddo, lucky that I can run to school with a forgotten violin, lucky that ballet and baseball fall on the same night BUT at different times. Lucky, lucky, lucky! It's a good life, and I am well-aware.
And I tried hard to feel lucky last week, I truly did, when everything started to crumble around me. First, Adam stayed home sick from work for the first time in. . . well, I don't know when. . . but I do know that there was a sick man upstairs in the cozy room where I sometimes like to crawl back into bed after driving Abby to school. (Please reserve judgment: I enjoy watching "Today" while lying down.) And then Jono got sick, and then Sam. And for the next two days, I tried to think, HOW LUCKY that I am so proficient at administering cough medicines, Vicks-Vapo-Rub, and throat lozenges. How lucky that these things even exist! What would Laura Ingalls have done? There was no Triaminic in her log cabin. . . and Pa was probably out on a 6-month hunting trip. (Note: I tend to compare myself to Laura Ingalls when I get overwhelmed.) Anyway, Adam finally left (I mean, thank GOODNESS he felt better!) to attend the Vera Wang fashion show for work. I know you might be asking yourself one of two things, so I will now answer both. No, I am not secretly married to Tim Gunn, style guru, and no, I did not get to go along. I did, however, get to receive text messages about New York Fashion Week—the paparazzi, the loud music, and the tents draped in black. Adam dared to speculate that I probably wouldn't have liked it very much. I texted back, "I love paparazzi, I love loud music, and I look GREAT in black." SEND. But it was so lucky that he was able to have this unique experience, wasn't it? I tried to be happy for him. (Moment of truth: I didn't try very hard. I pouted and even cried once.) But life at home, where there are no runways, goes on. I drove Abby to dance, drove Jono to baseball (in February?) and we attended two community rec basketball games. Jono got an earache and sprained his ankle on the same day, and I actually heard myself say, "Pick one: ankle, ear, or homework, because I can't possibly help you with all three." He probably didn't hear me, with his possibly burst eardrum, but I knew it was time for someone to go to bed. Me.
So after this long, lucky day, I crawled into my soft bed. It was icy cold. And wet. Soaking wet. From the comforter down through the mattress, thanks to a leak in someone's ankle ice pack. On the coldest day of the year. I got up, and tried not to cry as I dug through the clean laundry for bedding while the children slept. And then I realized: no one was coughing.
I am lucky that I have enough sheets and extra blankets to change my bed and that we will always be warm. I am lucky that with all of these coughs and sneezes and runny noses, that there is no suffering here that rest and Sudafed will not relieve. I am lucky that for as much as Adam travels, he travels safely. And while I am running these three lucky children around the town, they become well-rounded, but remain close to home. So perhaps the words don't haunt me after all. They just whisper to me constantly, like a quiet blessing. "Lucky. Lucky you."
And I tried hard to feel lucky last week, I truly did, when everything started to crumble around me. First, Adam stayed home sick from work for the first time in. . . well, I don't know when. . . but I do know that there was a sick man upstairs in the cozy room where I sometimes like to crawl back into bed after driving Abby to school. (Please reserve judgment: I enjoy watching "Today" while lying down.) And then Jono got sick, and then Sam. And for the next two days, I tried to think, HOW LUCKY that I am so proficient at administering cough medicines, Vicks-Vapo-Rub, and throat lozenges. How lucky that these things even exist! What would Laura Ingalls have done? There was no Triaminic in her log cabin. . . and Pa was probably out on a 6-month hunting trip. (Note: I tend to compare myself to Laura Ingalls when I get overwhelmed.) Anyway, Adam finally left (I mean, thank GOODNESS he felt better!) to attend the Vera Wang fashion show for work. I know you might be asking yourself one of two things, so I will now answer both. No, I am not secretly married to Tim Gunn, style guru, and no, I did not get to go along. I did, however, get to receive text messages about New York Fashion Week—the paparazzi, the loud music, and the tents draped in black. Adam dared to speculate that I probably wouldn't have liked it very much. I texted back, "I love paparazzi, I love loud music, and I look GREAT in black." SEND. But it was so lucky that he was able to have this unique experience, wasn't it? I tried to be happy for him. (Moment of truth: I didn't try very hard. I pouted and even cried once.) But life at home, where there are no runways, goes on. I drove Abby to dance, drove Jono to baseball (in February?) and we attended two community rec basketball games. Jono got an earache and sprained his ankle on the same day, and I actually heard myself say, "Pick one: ankle, ear, or homework, because I can't possibly help you with all three." He probably didn't hear me, with his possibly burst eardrum, but I knew it was time for someone to go to bed. Me.
So after this long, lucky day, I crawled into my soft bed. It was icy cold. And wet. Soaking wet. From the comforter down through the mattress, thanks to a leak in someone's ankle ice pack. On the coldest day of the year. I got up, and tried not to cry as I dug through the clean laundry for bedding while the children slept. And then I realized: no one was coughing.
I am lucky that I have enough sheets and extra blankets to change my bed and that we will always be warm. I am lucky that with all of these coughs and sneezes and runny noses, that there is no suffering here that rest and Sudafed will not relieve. I am lucky that for as much as Adam travels, he travels safely. And while I am running these three lucky children around the town, they become well-rounded, but remain close to home. So perhaps the words don't haunt me after all. They just whisper to me constantly, like a quiet blessing. "Lucky. Lucky you."
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