Germs and thoughts

We are really in the throes of it over here in our little corner of the world. Cora is totally sick with an extremely congested nose, red (infected) eyes, and a fever. She's so sick that she can't really nurse; after she tried tonight, she coughed so hard she threw up. I think it was because of her congestion, not because she has the flu. And then B came home early today because he is coming down with either a) whatever Cora has, or b) another bout with strep throat. I am currently drinking another glass of water and trying to get ready for another long, interrupted night. May I please, please, please just stay healthy? Please?

I am worried about B. His job is stressful, he's so tired all the time, and he comes home and throws himself into being a dedicated dad and partner. Plus, it's winter, and his San Diego-bred disposition needs more sun. I wish I could make him better. Tomorrow is his birthday and I have the feeling he'll be spending it sick in bed. My poor little family! From what I hear, this season has been particularly tough on everyone. My neighbor was saying that they've been spending week after week cycling through one virus after another.

This has been a relatively tough week and it's only Tuesday. Yesterday was a long struggle through the haze of sleepy me and sick Cora. I honestly have no idea how people deal with this when they have a huge family. My demanding little toddler is enough for me. After spending 45 minutes trying to help Cora get comfortable, and feeling tired and wrangled myself, I was talking to my friend about how sometimes I feel like everything is just being pulled out of me, all my energy drained entirely into loving and cooking and cuddling and nursing...especially nursing. Good grief, that's all Cora wanted to do yesterday afternoon and so I just sat in the rocking chair and gave up any sense of my body being mine. It is, for the time being, Cora's.

I felt so lost yesterday, wanting to do something more productive with myself--work for money, have a long stretch of productive writing time, even just clean and organize our house from top to bottom all the while enjoying uninterrupted thoughts. Holding my sick child felt exhausting and hollow. And then for some reason when Cora woke up in the middle of the night for the third time and we ended up on the couch from 1:30-2:30 while she guzzled water and stretched out next to me with her head on my shoulder, I felt strangely rejuvenated. Exhausted, but aware of this gift of my daughter, aware of a sense of permanence, of time slowing down. It's hard to describe. There's nothing like caring for a sick child to remind you of the present moment. I felt myself letting go, giving in and feeling to my bones the role I have in her life. She doesn't usually lie still for that long, and is slowly transitioning away from always needing to be nursed or walked/swayed in order to fall asleep. Her body is getting longer and stronger, and her little self next to mine last night felt like a whole new phase, like a little girl phase, and I can imagine her growing up far faster than I can really fathom.

B made me sleep in this morning before he headed to work and I think sometimes that's all I need, just sleep, sweet sleep. The day was beautiful with unexpected sun and Cora ate a good amount of breakfast and lunch and then fell asleep in her stroller while we enjoyed some fresh air. I wrote a couple of pages before she woke up, and then we nursed and had a snack and were headed out the door when B came home. Everything sort of went downhill after that with Cora's general health and my awareness of the stretch of household sickness still ahead.

But what I keep realizing as I cycle through these phases of unrest and clarity, wanderlust and domesticity, motherhood and writerly goals, is that these dichotomies will be present in my life forever, and in constantly shifting ways.

Right now I am a new mother with a small child, and I am loving her in all the ways I can. In her sick state, she doesn't generally like to go more than five minutes before asking to be picked up again. This is where we are at, and sometimes the fragility of these moments is palpable. I continue to feel a sense of certainty that what I want to do is to fill her up with as much of me as possible now because I want her to be a self-possessed, free spirit later. I am not assuming that my influence is necessary for that to occur, I just recognize that I deeply want to give it.

And I am slowly, daily working to make my writing grow. I'm not writing a ton, but I am writing regularly, and I am no longer sitting in a coffee shop looking out the window and fidgeting over an imperfect sentence. I am writing as fast as I can, and enjoying the story instead of thinking about what other people will think of it. I am hoping to carve out a few more hours a week for that effort, but there are also still many moments I don't take advantage of and that's where I need to be more disciplined. Once I sit down, I'm thrilled to be here. I am lucky when I remember that this is more than I've written in the past three years. It helps me get perspective. Yesterday I felt weighed down by the statistical probability of ever getting anything published, let alone becoming a prolific author. Those thoughts are not productive, not in the slightest. So I remind myself: It's a journey. I'm walking along the path.

Sometimes I start wanting to rush things--make it go faster! be an author, now! hurry, Cora, grow up and go on independent play dates and to school so I have more time to write!--or I start to question my gut instincts. Like yesterday, when I read nauseating, sad, worrisome headlines all day long about global economic turmoil. Should I have kept my job? Is what I'm doing "worth it"? There are certainly days when I question whether my decision to be the one staring at Cora while wondering what the heck to do next is something I need to be doing, or if it's something I should be paying someone to do so that I can make more money and contribute to the general economic health of our household and the GDP. And wanting to be a writer takes a certain amount of hutzpah, considering statistics and probability and general paycheck issues.

Parenting and career choices are very personal topics, as of course they should be. I sometimes feel the discussion electrifying the atmosphere, particularly between women, depending on their experience and interpretation. Some question how I can fit any writing in when there are so many other things that need to be done. Some remind me of the weight of feminist arguments against pulling so much domestic weight during this phase of our lives. Some are envious of the ability to be at home, while others adamantly explain that it's not something they could ever do. I feel myself swept along the current of it, feeling pulled in various directions. But I keep coming back to this thought: it's what we do in our own lives that matters. It's how we live, day to day, that creates a life. We need to go on our own journey, and comparing ourselves to each other is useful and helpful so far as it helps us hone in on what our own philosophy is.

Also, I find peace when I take a deep breath and remember that I am just trying to write my life a word at a time.

I see it is already 9:45, well past the bedtime of a person in a germ-filled household. Good night.