I Want My Mommy

There's something about getting really sick that brings out your inner child. Last week, when I spent a good deal of my time praying to the porcelain goddess, was one of those times. My mom was always at her best during those times I needed her most. She'd stand at the ready with a cool washcloth for my forehead and a glass of ginger ale, undeterred by the grossness before her. As I knelt on the bathroom floor, I couldn't help thinking how much I missed being taken care of like that. Oh sure, my husband brought me chicken soup and extra blankets. My kids, proving to be half as self-centered as I often accuse them of being, offered to go shopping for whatever I needed, make me jello or clean the kitchen. They were all great but they weren't my mom. Now living forty-five minutes away, she did offer to come if I needed her but I'm pretty sure that didn't include holding my hair back and wiping my forehead every time I visited the bathroom which was exactly what I was missing. It never ceases to amaze me what we hold precious from our childhood. Sometimes it's the most mundane, forgettable occurrences that end up meaning the most. That's why I'm so glad I was able to be there for so much of my children's early years. I threw out a pretty wide net; it would be hard for them not to remember at least a few nice things I did for them. And if this ritual turns out to be one of them, my cool cloth and warm ginger ale will be standing by.

Facing Facebook

I've always been a late bloomer so the fact that I've just recently become a member of the Facebook community should not be a shocker. While everyone else is off twittering, I've been busy plastering my vacation photos and updates on a website I should have been a part of years ago. I honestly don't know what took me so long (besides my inherent laziness and an abhorence of the internet in general). In a lot of ways, this should have been a no brainer. My large extended family is spread out all over the U.S. so unless one of them is picked up for a double homicide or nominated for an Oscar, it's hard to keep track of what they're all up to. The only problem now seems to be having the privledge of knowing EVERYTHING they're all up to. Do I really want to know that cousin Tim has a migraine that's making him suicidal or that Aunt Milly's best friend won the big prize at bingo last Saturday? I think not. I love them all but can't we save the inconsequential stuff for the next reunion when we have 72 hours to kill? On the plus side, within minutes of setting up shop, I was greeted by the smiling face of one of my oldest friends, asking when we could get together. After a couple of hours of faceless Facebooking, I took the bait. "Would tomorrow be too soon?"

waiting for the touchdown dance

Okay, I haven't gotten off to a good start on this blog as I haven't written anything since Jan. 11! Wasn't my New Year's resolution to write more??? Anyway, I have a good excuse for the last few days at least. My 21 year old son had to have a needle biopsy on an enlarged lymph node in his neck. Needless to say, my mind goes directly to the most dire worst-case scenario and I'm back in full mother mode. There is no way this mothering thing is ever going to get any easier. And every time I'm silly enough to convince myself that I'm almost done with all the worrying involved in the tangled mess that is parenthood, I'm brought back to reality that nothing short of my demise will free me (and even then I'm not so sure). Seeing your child hooked up to IVs, enduring a painful procedure that you can't do a damn thing about humbles you. It's at those vulnerable moments that I can't help seeing him as the rambunctious five-year-old that jumped into my lap begging me to kiss his latest boo-boo to make it all better. That I could then and can't now is a killer.