The gap widens every week.

I’m falling further and further behind in my reading, in my research, in my writing, and I find myself seriously questioning the manageability of the task.

It’s only 70 pages.

It’s only 70 pages and a thesis proposal.

It’s only 70 pages, a thesis proposal and 12 informal critiques.

I’m exhausted.

I’m not writing well.

My thoughts are unorganized and fleeting.

I question whether the window through which I have to succeed is too small.

Someone is up too early.

Someone is up too late.

Someone is too sick.

Someone is too misbehaved.

Someone is falling behind in school.

Time curls into the air like a cool vapor.

Poof.

I empty every bit of the hot water into the tub, hoping for a revival of eloquence or clarity, after which I watch drain away with the grit of my worry.

So long, hopeless wells for wishing.

But still,  I’ve never been good at taking no for an answer.

What if the question itself is all wrong? What if, in our quest for one certain outcome, we miss the whole point?

Maybe the answer isn’t no.

Maybe the answer is that you’ll find your own way.

Maybe the answer is, even in her majestic unruliness, mother-nature grows daffodils in the dead of winter.

Just, maybe.

It’s 10:50 p.m.
What started this morning as a low-grade fever, cough and general feeling of idontwannagotoschoolmommy
has turned into a creeping temperature, spotted throat and general feeling of IamprettysuredumplinghasStrepthroat

AGAIN.

[insert extremely loud derogatory language not suitable for the internets. sorry mom.]

I mention the time of day only because I have been struggling to keep my eyes open for the past several hours. But in anticipation of the upallnightwithsickkid factor, I’m in full-on angst mode over even daring to place my head upon the pillow for what I know must surely lurk around the very corners of my shadowy dreams. After-all, kids have this internal radar that activates as soon as a parent:

a. sits down to eat dinner

b. lowers herself into a steaming tub

c. begins a phone conversation

d. rests her head upon the pillow

These are known facts that are in no way scientific but are proven nonetheless. Just ask any parent.

And since the title of this post implies that I will provide additional unbelievable information that reaches beyond the realm of plagueland, here you have it:

Today on my drive to campus, I was able to catch a sufficient number of red-lights to accomplish painting all 10 of my fingernails. Anymore, I only ever paint my nails in the car. For one, it’s the only time I have to myself. For another, it’s the only time I have to myself that doesn’t require the direct use of my fingertips, allowing the paint ample time to dry. When you are 40 years-old and attending college with a bunch of 20 year-olds, you do not, and I repeat, do not, show up to class without your nails looking hip. True Story.

*And*—this here is the real cherry on top—-in a rare twist of amazing luck, today I did not have to park in China, as I scored a super sweet parking space right out front of the English building.

Looking back, the universe was clearly just easing me into what lied ahead; sleepless nights, fevers, restless & pain stricken offspring, germ infested waiting rooms, pharmacy hell, and antibiotic checklists indicating which children get which medicines at which time for which ailment.

But hey, at least my nails look amazing.

Here’s a fun fact:

Apple, yes--I named the puppy, Apple–came from South Carolina. So when I impersonate her, I dog-talk with a Southern Accent.

True Story.

This post is brought to you by the letters B & D for Brain Dead, after having spent 8 hours writing a 3 page essay on Catherine Sedgwick’s vision of women’s independence, cross-cultural conflict and the extinguishment of ideal friendships.

At 8:52 a.m. we missed the bus.

At 8:53 a.m. I used a paragraph of explicit language that is unsuitable to the internets.

At 10:12 a.m. we got the Tuesday health-room call, which was similar to the Monday health-room call, only with a new patient.

At 10: 13 a.m. I used a paragraph of explicit language that is unsuitable to the internets.

At 4:39 p.m., after waiting in the CVS pharmacy line for 20 minutes, the nice lady at the window told me that Ella’s prescription was not yet ready as it should have been, and that I needed to come back in another 20 minutes.

At 4:40 p.m. I used about a paragraph of explicit language that is unsuitable to the internets.

At 7:38 p.m. I had to ask the pirate to remind me which of the 4 smaller kids I was actually attempting to send to school tomorrow— there are so many after-all. Some are sick, some are on their way to becoming sick, and some are just past the sickness.

At 9:59 p.m. I am ever so grateful to be seconds away from sleep, but still can’t help but wonder what tomorrow has in store…

and how many paragraphs of explicit language unsuitable to the internets I will find myself engaged.

There has been at least one person sick, each and every week, for the past 7 weeks straight.

It began the week before Christmas. I think it was Evan.

It continued with Peyton vomitting in the middle of Christmas morning magic.

Further along came Kayla’s stomach plague, quickly followed by Ella, who was in bed for an entire 5 days.

Peyton relapsed that same week.

Mae has had 2 ear infections and strep. Separate occasions.

You get the picture.

After waiting 4 months to seek medical care for my own chronic and sometimes debilitating mysterious squirrel illness, I awoke Friday morning filled with a moderate amount of angst. Having been seen by a perplexed specialist just the day before, he had scheduled for me to have a Cat Scan on Friday, in hopes of getting to the bottom of my unexplained longterm vertigo, nausea, head pain & pressure, etc.

The before school morning rush was well under way when Peyton confessed to not feeling well, eyes glazed over, breath rapid, and skin pale.

On the way to the hospital for my CT, I texted to the pirate—who happens to work in the same hospital–to meet me in radiology with a puke pan because I had sick boy in tow, and lets face it, even if I cancel the appointment, chances are this is going to be as good a day as any. If you don’t follow my justification for that, just re-read the first line of this post.

My Ct Scan was negative, by the way. So I remain a mystery…a complicated order of sorts. I’m fine with that. It beats any number of the more ominous alternatives. Vestibular testing is next up on the menu. Any bets which sick kid I will be taking to that appointment?

Peyton perked up Saturday only to refuse dinner Saturday night, which led to what we believe was a momentary black-out (meaning he fainted, fell off the bed, and nearly gave me heart failure) Sunday morning, perpetuated by low blood sugar. Almost immediately followed by a brief but epic puke fest.

If ever there was a time I wanted to endorse adult beverage drinking first thing in the morning, it was yesterday.

Anyway, Peyton recovered well and all children were sent off to school this morning as the good Lord intended, which was excellent, considering I had another appointment scheduled for this morning. Just before that appointment, while I was in the store stocking up on all the weekly provisions fallen low from being trapped indoors with sick children, the healthroom phoned to say that Evan was sick and needed to be retrieved.

Long story, [still long, but I assure you much shorter than the real-life epic, greek tragedy--minus the greek--but still pretty tragic by some standards],short, by 6:45 this evening, the pirate was standing one step out the door with a puking, feverish, very much ill Evan, on his way up the road for a 45 minute one-way drive to the pediatricians office. Then back another 1 hour to the CVS pharmacy to drop off Evans prescription for Strep Throat, only to go back 40 minutes later to retrieve said prescription.

If I don’t laugh, I cry.
And still, even that, sometimes.

You know the one.. the whole laughcrylaughcrylaughcry, simultaneously thing. The kind that sends sheer terror through the veins of your spouse.

But it happens.

Maybe more often recently, because, SERIOUSLY?

Then there’s the pirate.

And with the pirate there is…

The improv.
The team up.
The rally.
The disclaimer.
The pep-talk.
The let.it.slide.

The coffee and donut.

Left side, his. Right side, mine.

So we work hard to find laughter in the center of the horrors. Some days it’s easier than others.

Because, come on, SEVEN (7) weeks straight, people.

Either way, on this great stage of life, there’s no one with whom I would rather write the script.

For centuries, women have been the centerpieces to the myth. Into a current of rising fictions, women are thrust beneath a river of  gender-norm expectations, beliefs, discriminations, and standards.

Women must do everything, be everything, to everyone, perfection…

The vine, though it grows slow and subtle, at last chokes the truth from the root of life.

Cut off from the truth long enough, we begin to forget the very story we came here to tell.

Framed within the world’s mirror, I spent the first half of my life’s story believing the myths about my alleged intellect, physique, sensitivity, and gender-role.

Though bright and beautiful is the fairy tale,  the painted smile begins to wither upon her empty face.

And I will spend the second half of my life pulling the vine from my truth.

Answers often elude me.

Life puzzles me.

I’m full of fear.

Hardly do I ever feel brave.

I will provide my children as best I am able.

Fiercely, will I love my children.

For my children’s every happiness, I am not responsible.

Never do the decisions fall easily.

I falter.

More than not.

I lack super powers, super strength, super religion, super smarts or superiority.

Everything, I am not.

Everything, I can not do.

Everything, will I never be.

Everything, will I never accomplish.

Never, will I truly be it all.

The truth? Ordinary is who I am.

I rock ordinary.

And I love.

Taming the truth is my journey.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s all been said before.

Is there anything unique in the way that I love them, the mystery that they are to me. That I am to myself.

Can I show them a world through the eyes of no one else?

We zigzag through the cold wooded path talking about the things that we see and hear, all the different ways that the trees smell and what the air feels like on our skin.

His shoelaces fray with every step, perpetually undone.

For all the ways they have undone my life, they are the very writing on my heart.

And I wonder in the end how their ears will hear the tale, how their minds will remember the journey.

Does the dye fade into the forgotten past?

The waves whisper along the shore
hush
hush

I shush them for a moment of quiet, to take in the world. We push and pull it away again and again like the receding tide.

hush.

We throw sticks into the dark waves and watch the fluid world beneath our feet carry them away to places we can only imagine.

The barges on the horizon are make-believe pirate ships, heavy with jewels of crimson and gold.

Heal to toe, toe to heal, she steps lightly across the length of the beam, all her trust balanced against the illusion of a straight line.

My mind bends under the un-balanced heaviness of being in both their world and mine.

Because alas, I cannot be in the kitchen and the bedroom all at once.

In my mind, I can never choose.

And I am neither me or mother, but this impossible union of two spirits learning how to be.

How to be me.

Yet there we stand—together, under the same sky, roaring low with color and wonder.

Slowly fades the lines that divide, bringing balance, clarity, and union.

A long braid dances along her shoulders to the rhythm of her playful shuffle. Reaching, she grabs a hold of my hand and says something I will soon forget. 

But I forgive that faded memory, lifted away into the heavens, an eternal treasure preserved.

Because I am there.

In that moment.

In her eyes. In her heart. In her hands. I am nothing. I am everything. I am me. I am she.

I am love.

And in that moment, love is enough.

Love is everything.

Today was the first day of Spring semester.

It was beautiful. But I’m too tired to elaborate.
A few facts I hope to revisit when I’m not too tired.

1. I had to park in China. Again.
2. I love Queen Elizabeth.
3. I confessed to my English Lit Professor that I read “Hunger Games” over winter break.
4. I’m completely unprepared to write my senior thesis.
5. I had chocolate milk for dinner.
5. It didn’t help me at all in the development of my thesis.
5. I just typed #5 three times.
6. It’s been 11 days since my last cheesecake.
7. I’m old enough to be the class mom in all my courses.
8. I pretty much am the class mom in all my courses.
9. Tomorrow I am going on a hot date with the pirate to celebrate our 19th anniversary. Until Sunday.
10. There will be cheesecake.

The End

It happens every time.

I get myself all worked up about starting a new semester.

And then I start taking expired zantac.

Then I get started and I bask in the glow of fine literature and all is right with the world.

But there is a small transition period with which we all must suffer.

Just love me through it.

And send chapstick.

“I am your mother, the first mile of your road. Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations. That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of tribe, a run at happiness. You can’t imagine how seriously I take that – even as I fail you. Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done.”
— Kelly Corrigan (Lift)

He clings to her center. Alone.

Like a fortress, her arms reach out around him. He doesn’t see me, but I can tell he feels welcome and safe with her. His mind is free to view the world in its own way. In its own shade.

This time of year she is bare and cold—transparent.

Dogwood.

I watch him scale her limbs and I swallow away a truth that is too heavy to carry around on most days.

There is an emptiness inside of my son that I will not be able to fill. This I know. And perhaps the most painful truth about mothering a child is the absolute guarantee that we will fail our children in some way. Even in our most heroic attempts, we will fall short. We can never be their everything.

And while my ego finds reason to envy the steadfast refuge he discovers in her, my heart throbs with gratitude and love for all the ways the world makes him whole, where I am unable.