It’s Mother’s Day weekend, and my girl has strep throat. She is rarely sick, and since I’ve only recently started to get used to her seven-year-old wit (“Oh no you didn’t, Mama-girlfriend!”) and independence (“You’re really embarrassing me!”), the sudden throwback to toddlerhood that the illness causes is startling. She wants constant closeness – for me to lie next to her and stroke her face and arms, to sing lullabies, to make the universal soothing shushing sounds of mothers everywhere. I hold her hair when she throws up, steam up the bathroom and cuddle her in the eucalyptus mist, take her temperature, coax down the medicines and sips of water. We’ve been doing this for almost thirty hours, and I hope the amoxicillin kicks in enough tomorrow to give her some relief. I hope she comes to forget the pain and joins those of us who can conjure a cherished feeling decades later with the slightest whiff of Vick’s vapor rub, ginger ale, toast and tea.
But as much as I wish her discomfort away, and as immeasurably grateful as I am to live in the age of antibiotics, to have access to good doctors and sick leave, to know that this is a common illness with a known and reliable cure, I can also say that this sweetly intimate time has been, strangely, a gift, and an oddly apt way to spend the hours leading up to Mother’s Day. This girl loves her dad, but I’m the unique and irreplaceable being she wants when she’s sick. The intense love and focus I have always within me, that lie fallow on brisker, ordinary days, are suddenly very much in demand. The old sayings about giving being far better than receiving strike true and clear. My old friend adrenaline, from their baby years, comes back to visit. I sleep and eat little. I don’t need anything all this Mother’s Day weekend but to place myself within constant reach, and to give thanks: for having a loving mother, and for the chances given, over and over, to be one myself.
But as much as I wish her discomfort away, and as immeasurably grateful as I am to live in the age of antibiotics, to have access to good doctors and sick leave, to know that this is a common illness with a known and reliable cure, I can also say that this sweetly intimate time has been, strangely, a gift, and an oddly apt way to spend the hours leading up to Mother’s Day. This girl loves her dad, but I’m the unique and irreplaceable being she wants when she’s sick. The intense love and focus I have always within me, that lie fallow on brisker, ordinary days, are suddenly very much in demand. The old sayings about giving being far better than receiving strike true and clear. My old friend adrenaline, from their baby years, comes back to visit. I sleep and eat little. I don’t need anything all this Mother’s Day weekend but to place myself within constant reach, and to give thanks: for having a loving mother, and for the chances given, over and over, to be one myself.