The Passover holiday in Israel means the kids are home from preschool for several days.
And since sending them to daycare has turned me into a spoiled little bitch who gets to sleep in most mornings I have gotten used to a little more flexibility in my week, this seemed like a catastrophe of epic proportions.
I stayed home with both kids for two and a half years, and there is only so many times you can sing The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round before going absolutely batshit crazy. And, the prospect of four long days with both kids–an emotionally rich not-quite-3-year-old and a likes-to-put-everything-in-his-mouth-including-dog-shit-15-month-old–made me twitchy.
(I think I may have sent out a few facebook status SOS messages: Four days without preschool. Any survival tips?)
(Wah wah wah, poor meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…. I have to be with my kidssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss………………………………………. Woe.)
I’ll admit it: There are days when I suck at being a mama. When all I want to do is be anywhere but with my kids. And unfortunately, those days seem to outnumber the occasional moments of grace when I am present and in the Now.
So, when Shabbat rolled around, I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth. I figured B and I would endure a few
meltdowns and a potty-miss or 10. I figured B and I would end up yelling at each other, sweating the small stuff again because we’re so good at that. Whatever. I didn’t figure that Little Homie would spike a fever–a high one–that wouldn’t come down. I didn’t figure my baby boy would be like a limp rag over my shoulder for several hours, waking only to cry hysterically until he dropped off into a phlegmy stupor. I didn’t figure that level-headed B would actually agree with me when I said I thought our son needed to go to the ER right away.
I didn’t figure that for a change, I wasn’t being neurotic–that it wasn’t “just” a virus. That Little Homie’s lungs were being colonized by Pneumonia. Again.
Life feels very fragile right now, and I am scared. I think about the What Ifs. The thought of losing him–or M, or B, or anyone I love–is too much. My heart hiccups. My lungs are useless. It feels like I’m drowning. And even though Little Homie is sleeping in my lap right now snoring like a French Bulldog, his fever down from 105.6 (no, that’s not a typo) to a respectable 100.3, there are no guarantees.
I thought I did everything right: I vaccinate my children. I make them wash their hands before eating. I still breastfeed. When the weather turns cool, I make them wear sweaters. When the sun is out, I slather them with sunscreen. But still. Here we are.
So, I’m going to do my damndest to enjoy my kids, because Perspective is like the drill sergeant on the Maury Show who tears the teenage twits a new one for dissing their families and whatnot. And, after the past few days, like those teenage monster-children, I too have seen the light.