This Sunday morning, instead of
going through our "get us to the church on time" routine, my baby
girl and I are sitting on the couch, snuggled together, peas in a pod of
pillows and blankets. She is snoozing away, sleeping off what I have diagnosed
as nausea, an over-supply of snot, and generalized yucky-ness. She wakes up
every now and then, usually from an inconsiderate noise, and tries to blink
herself back into this world. After a few eyelid flutters and squints that try
to set the world back on its axis, she gives up on seeing straight and drifts
off again, back into a much more stable universe.
How quickly they get sick, I think to myself. Last night, just 12 hours ago, she was
enjoying her set of back-to-back-to-back timeouts way too much. Just 12 short
hours ago, she was looking at me with those coaxing eyes that say, "I know
you want to be mad mama, but you really want to smile with me. Turn up the
corners, mama." Oh, child.
Now, she sits next to me,
breathing steadily through necessary slumber. How sick is she? I'm
staring at her, wondering, What is my gut saying to me? People always
say, listen to your gut. Well, she's sleeping a lot and that's rare, she
hates sleep. She's nauseated, but that could be from anything from snot to the
slight overdose of gas medicine to any number of things she ate yesterday, food
or otherwise. She's warm, but she's been warmer. What would Mom and Dad do?
Has someone marketed that
bracelet--WWMADD?
Well, this certainly doesn't seem
to be an emergency or urgent. For now, I think I'll let her sleep this off.
Now, what about medicine? Should I give her anything?...
She has no idea that a bevy of
decisions are being made on her account. She's just wondering when I'll stop
moving--sit still, Mama!
I kiss her flushed forehead. I
remember that at the height of crying after one of her head's encounters with
some object, I kissed her and said something like, "It's okay, baby,
mama's here. A mama's kiss has special powers, don't you know?"
I know that a kiss cannot cure. I
know that a kiss conveys that which medicine cannot:
I am here. I love you.
-------
There is a couple that I visit who
have been married long enough to have their picture on a Smucker's strawberry
jelly jar and shown on TV. Before the husband leaves to run errands, he will
walk over to the couch where his wife is sitting, lean over and kiss her, and
then kiss her again for emphasis. Everytime.
I will be back. I love
you.
-------
I remember driving my grandmother
and my cousins to the funeral home for our great-grandmother's service. We were
running a little late and my cousins came to the consensus that my foot was the
heaviest and therefore I should be the one to drive. I think it was the last time we were all in
the same car together, before life furthered the distance between us all.
At the funeral home, I remember
seeing my grandmother lean over and kiss her mother's forehead.
We will see each other again. I
love you.
another lovely post. you captured what so most mothers can't put into words. it's true a kiss means much more than they'll ever know, and mama's kisses definitely have special powers.
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