Sick, And Homesick, Too

If we didn’t get out of the house today, at least for a short while, my head was going to explode. The Poo and I have been ill since Saturday, with the girl falling first and me following in short order.

Scratchy throats, sinus headaches and a barking cough. Sleepless nights morph into cranky days, punctuated by meals prepared and pushed away, neither of us hungry.

Mr. Chicken has been cheerful and helpful, coming home early and fetching various and sundry over-the-counter remedies from the drugstore.

But today the sun shone, so I ignored the obvious and we made a trip out to lunch and to the bookstore.

The outing was less than two hours, but that was enough to set The Poo back. When we got home she was all over the place; clingy, bored, sassy, whirling indecisively from DVD to computer game to Ponyville.

We were upstairs, then down, then up again. Finally, after an hour of wiggling and fussing on the guest bed, demanding stories and then abandoning them midstream for a taped episode of Sesame Street, I shooed her back to the family room.

I made her lay on the sofa, covered her up, and supplied the requisite juice and water. Hugging her Bunsie, she asked to watch Boobahs. I set the player up and sank into the love-seat, embroidery in hand.

Fifteen minutes later, she rolled over on her side, sighed and commenced snoring.

At 5 p.m.

Yeah.

I called my mom’s house just to share the disastrous news with someone, and discovered my sister and her kids there, as well. They were watching movies and hanging out together. I heard my nephew in the background, demanding that his grandmother drive him home, not his mommy.

In my head I saw them; the blue walls of my mom’s bedroom, the dog bed on the floor in the guest room, where I sleep when I visit. I pictured my mom, soft brown hair framing her face and the sun slanting through the windows with that melancholy hue you see only when day turns to dusk.

My sister chatted with me, complaining about her husband’s failure to make dinner. Instead, she said, my mom sent them home with a container of homemade chicken soup.

In that instant, I was more homesick than I have been in almost a year.

I’m not feeling well, and neither is my girl. The baby in my belly prevents me from taking the good medicine, the kind that lets me sleep. There is no one here to bring me homemade chicken soup. There are no Sunday family dinners. There are no special days for The Poo, hanging out with just her grandmother. A few days ago, The Poo asked me for her cousin Lizzy, and when I told her she lived far away, my daughter cried.

Last year at this time, I’d already made four visits back East. This year, we limited our trips to Thanksgiving and the whirlwind that was Christmas.

I miss my mother. I miss my sister.

I miss the trees lining the broad avenues of the city where I lived for so many years. I miss my favorite restaurants. I miss complaining about the crappy newspaper and the ineffective politicians. I miss the house we bought and never had time to make our own.

Living in Chambana has been good for me, no doubt about it. And the friends I’ve made here will always be close to my heart.

But it’s true, what they say. There’s just no place like home.