Good god, have I been ill. Ill with a capital I, so ill I haven't even wanted to read anything. As my husband points out, only I could be 1) pregnant, 2) morning, noon, and night sick, and 3) catch the flu. He shakes his head in despair at his delicate wife : )And yet, to his puzzlement (and happiness of course), I seem to birth such darn healthy babies.
So I've been perusing my new issues of Brain, Child and Real Simple and Parents (I will be so glad when that stupid subscription runs out). And last night I resorted to reading Anne of the Island and Anne of Windy Poplars - the literary equivalent of flannel pajamas and a hot water bottle in your bed.
At one point this weekend, I longed for my mom. When I was sick as a kid, she was so comforting. (Much more comforting than she ever was when we were healthy, blaspehmous as that sounds to say. I think that, like her daughter, she dealt better with a crisis than the annoying mundanities of everyday life.) She'd come check your forehead for fever with her cool, soft, sure hands. She'd make plates and plates of buttered toast and cups and cups of hot sweet tea with honey and lemon. She'd hold your head when you threw up. And when you were feeling a little better, you were allowed to lie on the couch during the day and watch TV. Sounds glorious, especially since as the mom now, regardless of how sick *I* am, I am the one taxed with food prep, cleaning up vomit, and keeping fresh sheets on the beds. So in my fevered state this past weekend, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for my childhood. Who'd have ever guessed? : )
3 comments:
Once, when I lived in Chicago and was in the throes of a bad panic attack, my aunt (my mom's youngest sister) put her hand on my forehead to see if I was feverish, and I couldn't believe the jolt I got--her hand felt exactly like my mom's! I almost started sobbing, because as kind and loving as my aunt was, she wasn't my mom. And I was scared and sick and miserable, and I just wanted my mother.
You know what's funny? If my mom were alive, I'd never have consdiered it "blasphemous" to have made the observation about her that I did in that post, that she dealt better with a crisis. Why does death make you feel like you need to only say nice things about the person? I mean, if it's not safe then, when is it?!
C'mon back and haunt me, Mom, you know you want to!
Not only do I not think your comment about your mom was blasphemous, I think it's kind of a compliment--albeit in a weird way.
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