Yesterday was not an easy day. Nor was the day before. And the night before that. Esther-Faith was sick. I was trying to determine if she was really sick. Or was she just all-kids-get-colds sick. Alone with her for a couple of days, I held her as much as she wanted. While she was awake. While she was asleep. While she watched movies. While she read books, colored with markers, cut with scissors, and squished the play-doh. I held her hand while she ate her soup. I pulled her to me during one of her coughing fits so that we were wrapped together in the same blanket. Her body heaving with each painful cough. Mine with each sob. Sitting on the couch. In the dark. With just the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Tears streaming down my face and my sick two-year-old in my lap, I prayed for the coughing to stop. For the fever to break. For our normal to return.
Not that our normal is really all that normal.
On day three of “Mystery Illness 2008,” Esther-Faith was sitting on the couch wrapped in a fuzzy purple blanket when she looked at me as I stood up after re-starting the movie “Wall-E” for the second time that day. She held out her tiny hand and patted the couch, her eyes imploring me to sit in the exact spot that she indicated, while she asked, “Do you wanna watch with me?” Of course I do, I thought, while my mind was racing to the lists of things in the other room that weren’t getting done. Dishes. Laundry. Work. Cooking. Emails. Cleaning. Blogging. I let my body sink into the couch as she snuggled into me. I pulled a blanket up to our necks and we watched a movie. Her feverish body leaning against mine. We giggled at the antics of the silly robots. We held hands. Hers felt tiny and hot in mine. We talked about colors and shapes and eyes and tried to determine if Wall-E and EVE were boy robots or girl robots. None of those things were on any list I had in my head or in a notebook in the other room. In fact, I’m not sure I have ever written down “snuggle with the two-year-old daughter” on any list anywhere. But in that moment, it felt like the only thing I wanted to be doing. Like sitting there with my sick daughter was my list.
The only other time I can remember not having a “to-do” list was shortly after Esther-Faith was born. Sure, there were things to do. Lots of them. Heal from surgery. Write thank you notes. Cook for the rest of the family. Dishes. Laundry. Clean. Keep the baby alive. Yeah. I remember that one. In those days—which sometimes feel like yesterday and sometimes feel like decades ago—the only thing on my mind was life. And keeping it that way. My baby was alive. Oh, I never wrote down any of my strategies on a list. But I had them. Constantly checking her incision sites for infection or abnormalities. Gently touching her shunt about 100 times a day—checking for shunt failure. I even measured the diameter of her head. And took her pulse. I diligently did the exercises on her feet and legs that would gradually move them back into the “right” position. I nursed her. I held my ear close to her face so I could hear her take a breath. Lots of times I woke up with a start from a dead sleep, my heart racing as I listened for her next breath. Sometimes, after I checked to make sure husband of the year was asleep, I would quietly walk to the crib that stood at the end of our bed and I would gently place my hand on her and let her soft breathing move my hand. No, there were no lists, but there was plenty of worry. And wondering if life would ever settle down.
It has not. Not that I honestly expected it to.
After she went to bed—in her own bed—for the first time in three nights last night, I knew there were plenty of things I could have been doing, should have been doing, but I sat down with a notebook instead. A small, green, wire bound notebook made out of recycled paper and printed with soy-based ink. I turned past the pages of work lists and Christmas “to do” lists and menu lists and grocery lists. I stalled at the pages on which Esther-Faith had made her own lists. And past one page with a square smiley face drawn on it—a picture of “Wall-E” courtesy of the two year old. I turned to a fresh page. A blank page. And I made a list. It was a short list. But it is the only important list.
Snuggle with the 12 year old.
Snuggle with the 8 year old.
Snuggle with the 2 year old.
Snuggle with the 34 year old.
Say “yes” more.
Say “I love you” more.
Make fewer lists. Live more life.
