Mama's Hitting the Hard Stuff

Liquor boxes are the best.
They are sturdy, a good size. They are made for toting heavy valuables. They are free.

Should you see my husband driving around, hitting up all the liquor stores in town, do not be alarmed.

Should you see the kids and me in our Sunday best sitting in the car outside the liquor store, waiting for Daddy to return, it's not what you think.

Should you walk into my living room and see what appears to be twenty cases of good vodka stacked on our hearth, you will be disappointed if you think we are planning some sort of swank party. I don't know how to mix a cocktail. In fact, the only cocktails I know are the names I've read in books. Nerd, I know. It's the kind of nerd I'm all right to be, though.

The truth is, Mama has been hitting the hard stuff again.

The hard stuff like that cupboard under the stairs that has been a repository for random and useless things for the last five years.

The hard stuff like trying to determine which of my babies' priceless works of art to part with.

The hard stuff like resisting the urge to sit down and read all of the letters from friends and family that I have saved for the last 20 years or so.

The hard stuff like sneaking broken toys and cherished junk to Goodwill when no one is looking.

So it's my fault. I've sent my husband out to the liquor stores. It's me. I'm the one who's been holed up in the house, ignoring my kids, too dirty to be seen by the general public, hitting the hard stuff and hitting it hard.

My husband comes back loaded with gems that make my head spin: Grand Marnier, Goldschlager, Seagram's, Smirnoff. I exclaim with exhausted, half-sick glee over them and hoard them to myself, telling everyone to go away and leave me to it. I just need them to get me through this time. I'll quit in a month. I won't need them after that. I promise.

In a few weeks, we'll load it all back on the wagon. I'll be done with it all. I'll send them on their way. It will be back to business as usual. I will quit and I will enjoy the summer outdoors, I will play with my kids, I will socialize with friends again. I may even shower and shave. In a few weeks. For now, I'm hitting the hard stuff. Please excuse the mess.

Liquor boxes are the best.

The Gift of Carrion

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.