Kneeling
Posted on | April 1, 2009 | 10 Comments
I press my palms to my face. My heart feels like a small bird caught in the high wires. Tonight, optimism is ash. I am on my knees by the wood stove, adding logs watching the flames lick up the bark, and both boys are crying. Bean has a fever of 102.5 and another ear infection. Sprout is just his small sweet self, but babies cry, and dusk is his witching hour.
Bean is wailing because he wants to be touching me, next to me, snuggled on top of me. He wants tea, but it is too hot, then too cold. He wants honey in it, but not so much, but now maybe more. He is restless, edgy. There are circles under his eyes. His lashes are the color of charcoal. The circles are the color of a bruise, or a plum.
Outside it is raining. The sky is ashy and gray. Rain licks at the windows. Mud is thick on the road. The stock market is unpredictable and chaotic. The balance has become a negative number. The days are knit together with loops of worry.
Harder than parenting a newborn or a toddler, is this: being a mother to a child who has been perpetually sick all winter, in a place where winter lasts six months, relying on an income that fluctuates with the tides of an increasingly unpredictable market. Mostly, it’s his fragility that makes my heart feel flayed and anxious. His smile is lopsided and darling. His voice has become high-pitched, whiny, uncomfortable with the steady persistence of congestion, ear aches, coughs.
Even after the fire’s heat is evident and my face is flushed I linger, kneeling, whispering a silent prayer. The rain keeps falling. Night gathers in the wet branches of trees beyond the glass. Tonight there is no chin-up positive attitude. No sunny outlook. Just pure exhaustion and the simple slim hope that tomorrow will be better than today.
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April 1st, 2009 @ 10:00 pm
I read your posts often. My own children are 13 years now and almost 16. Time really does fly, and I love the memories your words continually evoke for me.
Tomorrow is always a new day, thankfully. Get some good sleep.
April 1st, 2009 @ 11:38 pm
My heart goes out to you. Hang on!
April 2nd, 2009 @ 12:11 am
Urrrrrgh. I wish I didn’t know how you feel!
April 2nd, 2009 @ 2:38 am
I so understand too. Here it is the baby with the ear infection and the croup. I keep cursing the length of winters versus the shortness of eustacian tubes
.
April 2nd, 2009 @ 7:11 am
You’re a great mother, Christina.
I am sometimes afraid of being a mum or maybe i’m afraid of being the sort of mother my own mum was towards me- distant and condemning.
April 2nd, 2009 @ 8:05 am
yes, honey, i know. hyla has a double ear infection on top of the rotavirus and porter, as always in winter, has his “reactive airway” as they like to call it. it is so hard to be mommy sometimes. it is so hard to keep smiling and being positive. all i can say is hang in there – as i say to myself some mornings when i want to crawl into the computer and hibernate while children entertain themselves without me. i feel selfish, and then sometimes not so much. eat yummy things that nourish your soul, snuggle, and try to be good to yourself. hugs to you.
April 2nd, 2009 @ 8:25 am
hoping that today IS a better day..
April 2nd, 2009 @ 11:54 am
It will be a better day tomorrow, for sure. But for now, I’ll cry empathetic cries with you.
April 2nd, 2009 @ 12:34 pm
More honey, more, more. Aaah, I just want to scoop you all up and transplant you somewhere sunny and warm and easy.
April 5th, 2009 @ 3:45 pm
you make me weepy. love to you and your family!