Plainly, it sucks to be sick.
Add to this influenza. REAL flu - which I'm not certain I've ever had before. Chills and no thrills folks. Unrelenting, what day is it, somebody shoot me, drag your butt outta bed and drive the kids (or, in our case, kid) who are well enough to school. Just down the street from where we live, I agonized over the 5 minute journey and hoped no-one would see me, bed-headed and zombified - behind the wheel. (and not the good n'gorgeous zombified we see in twilight mind you - I'd have scared the b'jesus outta Edward and family had they beheld me at any point during the first 2 weeks of the flu).
However - at some point - we start to get better. and when that happens, my daughter (freshly birthday'd right before the onslaught of total "yuk-dom" as she calls it) and I find ourselves together with no particular place to go. Conversation takes a slower pace - and is less urgent that on the days when we have a million things to do, people to see, stuff to learn, homework to finish, dinner and plans for friends and - at least in our home - the endless girlstuff that just happens when a 9 and 11 year old circle you like raptors looking for the weak link in the fence ;)
Suddenly - there is no waiting when my daughter wants to talk to me, a rare thing lately - and after a day or so of adjusting - headaches subsiding - I find I am meeting my daughter as she will be, for the first time. This doesn't mean I don't know her - I do. Every inch, every tangle and ear lobe, every lanky, goofy and sweet prance around the living room is familiar. I recognize the color of her cheeks and very particular hue of HER blue/grey eyes. She is my first baby, fully one half of the 2 part equation that sum up love in my life (two daughters - it's always about even recognition...) Among wadded up tissues and doses of motrin, endless buttered toast and black tea (with plently of lemon and less sugar than she'd like) - we connect.
She talks. And talks. I notice she makes faces like me, but better. She is quick and funny and I'm happy to be held captive by flu for once. She laughs and giggles over the latest level earned on "Zelda" - she relates secrets learned, every nook and unknown. While I have never been a gamer, I find I'm amazed at the intricacies of the plot though I'm not really sure who the hell Zelda is... but quickly I find out - it's all about "Link" anyway. I'm used to leading, but the more I try to sway conversation to reality, the more adamant she is about speaking virtually. It's a bit of a tug and she wins, quite fairly and so I listen. The game becomes our portal. The more I listen, the more she swerves off the path and dives head first into life in the land of the living. I hear about friends and frienemies, opinions - some pretty decisive for a girl her age on everything from Obama to Octomom. I see that she has breathed in every nuance of the world both intimately around her (she hates sharing a room with her sister, but would miss her if they had their own) and globally present (she is now vegetarian, but will eat fish - because fish aren't cute) and has discarded without my counsel notions about fashion and economy, her own conclusions drawn. She yields her sense of fairness like a sword. This she gets from me. I wonder how it will play out in her life...
During our shared sick days, to have her to myself is both an extreme pleasure and a real pain at times - because I'm missing work, and because I struggle with worry as I always have. I cause myself that discomfort, and in a position where my hands are tied, I let the days unfold. For once, maybe because I'm too tired and sick myself to fill up my time with all the things undone on my lists, I set no time limit (well - until after midnight) and I listen. I have the sense that someone has turned me around three times blindfolded. My child was right in front of me, chubby fingers reaching up or wrapped around my knee, singing "brother john" sweetly "whu-ing" her words, so it rang out, "bwother jwohn, mwother john". She was serious about the song, but her own critic and it mattered to her that she got it right. She referred to herself in third person then, "What about Emma's chalk?" and called out for items missing as tho they would answer back... "Jwump Rwope! Where are you Wrope?"
There's an ache for me that's about those days of littleness and naptime. I understand now what my own Grandmother meant when she said she'd give anything to go back, but I get it totally, differently, I feel suddenly heavy with the full weight meaning. I understand too - maybe for the first time, that I have grown up with her. I see we have time, but I feel it whoosh by as well. I hear her singing, perfect pitch. Unconcerned with anyone's opinion but her own as to her performance. I realize I'm smiling and if she notices, she doesn't let on. Her sister dances in the front door and belts out a loud rendition of Amazing Grace, which annoys my oldest greatly - and delights her sister just as completely. The bickering starts and the spell is changed. Time to direct what happens next (or operate under the illusion that I can direct either of them).
When my girls were very little, they called each other Ah-ma (Emma) and Sa-he (Sally). For the longest time they held these names for each other, though over time used them less and less, and I've worried (because it's what I do) that the names, the last remnant of their small selves would be lost. But as I write, chicken soup simmers and over the bubbling I hear them call to each other as Ahma and Sahe. I grab the memory... I know I can wrap up this moment and keep it. So I jot it down on a post it note and tuck it into my pocket. As I'm back to stirring, closing cupboard doors with my elbow and opening up cracker boxes, I hear one sister to the other: "You took away my only-ness!" I have an idea about that - some other time tho, soup's ready.
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