By day 4 of unrelenting high fevers for two of my daughters I had started to crack.
My husband had been sick, too,
and, as he adheres very closely to the Man Sickness Code,
I had written him off as a partner all week.
His role was simply to hand me things to put in the sink, and to sigh deep and often.
This, I just had to accept.
Worry over the girls mounted as the days went on, and the fevers stayed high.
Their faces flushed, and their bodies trembled with chills.
They got used to my calls at the doctor’s office.
For almost an entire week I hardly slept.
Up until 4am at bedsides, filling out medication dispensing spreadsheets, taking temperatures, filling humidifiers, rubbing backs, and searching remedies online.
This illness directly following a very recent whole other week where they had all been down with the flu.
I had been the only one still standing then, too.
My worry grew with my fatigue.
After a week of 103 fevers every day, my daughter Chloe was looking so thin and pale, and
I sat on her bed multiple nights as she trembled with chills and I felt her head.
She cried and told me that she felt scared.
My words assured, and my hands soothed,
but I could feel myself starting to break down.
My mother has always said I should have been a doctor because of my wide-array of medical knowledge, but it is different when it’s your own kids, and there is only so much pouring out you can do on a loop before your own vessel dries out and begins to weaken inside.
I had been so busy making sure everyone around me was comfortable, hydrated, and cared for that I had neglected to make sure of that for myself.
My feet hurt.
My back hurt.
My heart hurt.
I would have payed so much money for a really long hug.
I dreamed of a nap in the sun.
I ached as I thought of the mothers with chronically or terminally ill children who have stopped even dreaming of an end,
and so I piled onto my plate a serving of guilt because of complaining at all.
I have always wanted to be a mother.
Being one has given me all the best parts of my life,
but I didn’t know how often after I became one that I would yearn to just be with my own mom.
How often I would have days when I would want to have her lap to lay my own head gently on as she lovingly soothed my pain away.
How often I would dream of being able to once again to trust that as I rested,
someone would be up at night making sure it was all taken care of for ME.
As morning after morning the thermometers read 103 this week, I began to lose hope a bit, and projected dark thoughts over all of my remaining days on the earth.
Yep.
This was it.
This was just my life now.
This was just how how it was going to be.
I would wait on people, sanitize things, and squint in the sun.
My thoughts spiraled downwards like that until I remembered the importance of a very important thing: Baby steps.
I thought of “What About Bob” and realized how much truth was in that funny clip where he is repeating,
“Baby steps to the front door.
Baby steps to the elevator.
Baby steps onto the bus.”
It had been so overwhelming to think of several more days of the caretaking if I looked around at the stacked up dishes, and laundry piles;
When really all I needed to do was focus on just the very next tiny thing.
Drink some water.
Put on shoes.
Make the call.
Measure the Tylenol.
When everything I needed to do was lumped together I felt defeated before I’d even begun.
But if I broke it up into more digestible bits,
I felt capable of taking it on.
On the fourth night of illness, as I walked out to my car to do yet another pharmacy run,
I looked up to notice that the cherry blossom trees in my yard had gone from bare to teaming with blossoms in just the span of one single day.
What had just yesterday looked stripped and depressing, was now a full and beautiful display.
I stood there for a moment taking those blossoms in –
The sight of them like balm for the rough patches inside.
Sometimes as mothers we are in a true winter season.
Life sometimes feels lonely and gray.
The baby won’t sleep,
the pre-teen aims to hurt you with their words, the toddler will never be still.
Maybe you miss someone that you once loved.
Maybe you had a place that you wished you could have stayed.
But all those buds now covering those trees had been right under the bleak surface, invisible, one day before;
And spring, it is coming for us, too,
if we baby step for just one more day.
Three days ago I felt like the illnesses would never end.
Three days ago I cried to my friends telling them I could not take it for even one more second.
But today, when we woke, the fevers were gone.
Today we went out briefly into the sun.
Today I look at this beautiful pink bouquet of trees that feels like it’s there just for me
and I find in it the strength to go on.
I wrote this poem a few years ago.
Today I think maybe I wrote it for this future me.
“This is for the tear wipers
The band-aid smoothers
The snack choppers
For the guidance givers
And the medicine measurers
The insurance ID number knowers
The beginning band concert goers
This is for the science project gluers
And the midnight recliner rockers
For the check writers
And the mouth wipers
For the party planners
For the party cleaners
The calendar keepers
The dandelion receivers
For the ones yelling, “WALK!”
And the ones whispering “PLEASE sleep.”
This is for the grocery getters
The symptom Googlers
The collar smoothers
The pocket tuckers
The zipper unstickers
For every propped open eyelid
And trusted zipped lip
For every fall catcher
And every gentle training-wheel-less bike pusher
For those who walk beside
And those that watch from a distance
For the givers
The folders
The holders
The molders
The lost tooth keepers
The countless prayer senders
For every one who IS,
was,
Or just wants to be.
This is for the Mothers.
For The Roots of the Tree.”
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
