Mom, he says, Mom. Your arm is so hot!
He strokes my forearm. It pokes out from the sleeve of my robe, naked and vulnerable. His little hand is cool against my skin.
I know, baby. Mommy has a fever.
***
It’s when I’m low that the doubts come.
The swirl around me in a hectic cloud, making the terra firm I take for granted most days feel tilt-y and unsure. What mess have we gotten ourselves in, and how will we ever extract ourselves?
The phone rings, it’s the therapist’s office.
We have you down for 2 p.m. today.
It’s 2:30, according to the clock on the dirty stove. But in my head it is early morning and my brain is fogged with sleep and cold medicine.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
How I loathe those words.
I’m always saying them to someone. My husband. My friends, those to whom I am professionally obligated.
I’m sorry I’m always such a mess.
It’s one thing, then another. Surely no one else has so many minor disasters in every month. A broken car, sick children, the flu striking us all down in one fell swoop.
I’m sorry.
Mommy has a fever.
***
Twice a month, I leave my house after dark for a work obligation. I have to get dressed up and I turn the music up loud. As the headlights peel back the night I sing the songs of my younger days.
The songs, they conjure up my time wandering the streets of London clad in an oversized tuxedo jacket and pink high-top sneakers. I don’t know what I’m longing for but my heart aches with a ferocity that rocks me.
Am I wishing for the place? The person? The past?
It’s all tangled up and I wander the far reaches of my own head, yearning to grab that girl and let her pull me back there, there to a place so beautifully uncomplicated. The words rise up inside me like slick oil in a well and then I’m turning into my own garage, 20 years later.
I see the blue flicker of the television screen and the cheerful yellow walls of my family room. Inside, my children slumber and my husband waits to eat dinner with me.
The cold sears my lungs and I walk inside the door.
The words, they disappear.
***
I have a fever. I’ve had it for three days. I can’t sleep, and when I do, I have bad dreams. I’m lonely and I just want to be alone.
I’m longing for something I never had, for something I don’t even want.
Mommy has a fever.
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Oh, lady …
I have a fever too, and I have memories, also of London, and places and people and things that I long for in a way that is both palpable and inchoate … this makes so much sense, ever word.
Wish I could help. But I’m next to you in the ether, at 101.5
A place so beautifully uncomplicated… we never knew what we had back then…
“Mommy has a fever,” oh that is SO me right now. Thank you for posting this.
Lots of people have that many disasters in a month. It just doesn’t feel like it when you’re in the midst of it. Hope you are feeling better and a bit more optimistic today. I wish I could write half as well — and that’s me without a fever.
Oh sweetie,
I was thinking about you last night. I haven’t read your blog in ages, which makes me sad… I came on today and read through months of backlog. I can’t believe how big your babies are. Especially Henry. I remember one of the first posts I ever read of yours was when you said something along the lines of not being able to go on holiday or do a whole lot of things you wanted, because it looked like you were expecting a baby in August. I remember when he was born and I was so excited. I’ve watched you grow and change and become an amazing woman, even through your grief.
I lost my dad last year in July. I thought about you a lot then. I thought about how I finally understood you.
I want you to know that just because I don’t visit every day like I used to, doesn’t mean I don’t still love reading what you write. You’re amazing.
-Kirsten (Saeth on Twitter)
my sweet friend, you are so beautiful and not a mess. You are simply human.
Sometimes life just is hard. It doesn’t make you any less than…it makes you human.
I hope you get to feeling better soon friend. Hugs.
xoxoxo