Dead meat.
Squashed and mangled on the side of the road. Smelly and bruised and bloodied with bristly hairs sticking up at odd angles; bits of leaves and trash stuck to it. It used to be alive, vibrant and vital. Now it's just a distasteful lump. Avoided by gazes and by passersby. Don't want to get that on you.
This is me today.
Carrion.
Someone brought a cold home from school last month. And she shared. She's a loving girl, generous to a fault. Snuggly and sweet and shared her snot. And because we're a patient and caring family, we all took turns. Not everybody all at once. We savored the cold, passing it around like show and tell. Round 1.
It's all a haze of tissues and Tylenol and hot honey lemon tea now. Coughing, coughing, coughing. Eucalyptus steam baths in the middle of the night for little koalas who can't breathe to sleep. Stir crazy monkeys. Well enough to be grumpy, not well enough to go to school. Round 2.
Aching, spinning heads, wonky brains. Chills, exhaustion. Someone touched something somewhere. Didn't wash their hands. I'm positive of it. Someone thought that making blowfish on a glass door in a public place was a good idea. Or some such nonsense. A preschool holiday party that sounds like a TB ward. Sends me crawling out of my skin. Don't touch that kid, he's sticky. Someone shared again. Round 3.
Finally mending, first good night's sleep in weeks. Coughing has abated, color has returned. Personalities back to normal, whining ceased. Looking good for our impending road trip. Until yesterday afternoon, the Hooligan: "Mom! Mom!" an edge of fear in his voice, "Come here! I can't stop shivering!" I could feel the heat radiating off of him before I even touched him. Into the tub, onto the couch swaddled and Tylenol-ed. A night in fitful delirium, doing math problems out loud in his sleep, talking of trains and something is "f-f-f-fresh". Obviously not me.
I'm carrion.
But I will carry on.
This is the job I signed up for when that extra line showed up on the stick. This is part of the mission. This is the onus of parenthood.
To carry on.
Without resentment, but with gratitude for strong and healthy children whose illness is only seasonal; for a faithful, dedicated partner in this endeavor. With purpose: to create a warm and safe and comforting place for little people to feel so bad. With one foot in front of the other.
To carry on.
Even when you feel like carrion.
Squashed and mangled on the side of the road. Smelly and bruised and bloodied with bristly hairs sticking up at odd angles; bits of leaves and trash stuck to it. It used to be alive, vibrant and vital. Now it's just a distasteful lump. Avoided by gazes and by passersby. Don't want to get that on you.
This is me today.
Carrion.
Someone brought a cold home from school last month. And she shared. She's a loving girl, generous to a fault. Snuggly and sweet and shared her snot. And because we're a patient and caring family, we all took turns. Not everybody all at once. We savored the cold, passing it around like show and tell. Round 1.
It's all a haze of tissues and Tylenol and hot honey lemon tea now. Coughing, coughing, coughing. Eucalyptus steam baths in the middle of the night for little koalas who can't breathe to sleep. Stir crazy monkeys. Well enough to be grumpy, not well enough to go to school. Round 2.
Aching, spinning heads, wonky brains. Chills, exhaustion. Someone touched something somewhere. Didn't wash their hands. I'm positive of it. Someone thought that making blowfish on a glass door in a public place was a good idea. Or some such nonsense. A preschool holiday party that sounds like a TB ward. Sends me crawling out of my skin. Don't touch that kid, he's sticky. Someone shared again. Round 3.
Finally mending, first good night's sleep in weeks. Coughing has abated, color has returned. Personalities back to normal, whining ceased. Looking good for our impending road trip. Until yesterday afternoon, the Hooligan: "Mom! Mom!" an edge of fear in his voice, "Come here! I can't stop shivering!" I could feel the heat radiating off of him before I even touched him. Into the tub, onto the couch swaddled and Tylenol-ed. A night in fitful delirium, doing math problems out loud in his sleep, talking of trains and something is "f-f-f-fresh". Obviously not me.
I'm carrion.
But I will carry on.
This is the job I signed up for when that extra line showed up on the stick. This is part of the mission. This is the onus of parenthood.
To carry on.
Without resentment, but with gratitude for strong and healthy children whose illness is only seasonal; for a faithful, dedicated partner in this endeavor. With purpose: to create a warm and safe and comforting place for little people to feel so bad. With one foot in front of the other.
To carry on.
Even when you feel like carrion.
