Mamas of medically complicated children, you are my heros. No, seriously. I’ve been at this for less than a week and I’m dead. Two weeks of picking up the teenagers snot rags have netted me the worst cold in modern history. I’m 5 parent-teacher conferences in and I no longer care. I sit in teeny chairs across from beloved teachers that are killing it, a line of drool connecting me to my shirt, and take in about a fourth of their words. Which means my kids are basically acing school. That’s what I hear. Don’t take it away from me. Grant’s conferences Monday night, Smalls in tow, were conducted over flimsy card tables in the commons. Each teacher graciously held their side of the table with both hands and teeth clenched, while the Smalls repeatedly bumped it, jeopardizing their laptop and coffee. I distracted them by sending them over and over to the Gay/Straight Alliance bake sale, which means we’ve personally funded their Pride teeshirts for the coming year. The little ones asked what the rainbow flag was for. I told them Noah. This is the best I can do today.
Between appointments, I come home, let the pups out and fall onto the couch wrapped in my new blanket (Athleta…amazing) and sleep until my phone alarm signals it’s time for meds or appointment. The dogs haven’t been walked in three days and are going to start eating the woodwork soon. This cannot be helped. It’s my beloved’s birthday today. I texted him and asked for a lunch date, which he read as nooner. I corrected him. Then texted ten minutes later to say that Abe now has a 12:50 with Pulmonary, how about breakfast? I’m all yours. Until they called to tell us we needed to be at Dermatology at 8:30. Still yours, only in between the hours of 10 and noon. And I’ll be spending those bringing cake to his office because he. deserves. to. be. celebrated. And I’ll take the pups and call it a walk because that’s a twofer and I need one of those.
Last night, while he was a bible study, we made a dessert involving jello, pretzels and a Christian Reformed Church membership. He will love it. Steaks are thawing and his new table saw is on hold. He deserves so much more, this man who loves us so well even though we are almost never at our best. This high school love of mine. One of the teacher asked us what our evenings look like. We laughed until my mascara ran. She doesn’t get it, her being sweet and young and no kids. We told her it’s like feeding time at the zoo. Only the animals are all schizophrenic. Waiting in line yesterday for a prescription, between ortho for teenager and ordering more dog food, I did what any busy mama does in lines: got after my eyebrows with a tweezers and unrealistic expectations. This is what we call putting lipstick on a hog. But waxing will have to wait until Friday at least. Nails too and peeing. My prescription wasn’t ready, even though I’d called it in the day before. I looked him in the eye and said, listen man, I am barely hanging on here. This is not the day to mess with my Zoloft. He backed up a step and repeated that it would be ready in a half hour. In a half hour, I said, I’ll be miles from here and I’m not coming back. In a half hour, I told him, I’m going to Australia.
So, if you’re a mama of medically complex kid you’re my hero. When things die down here, I’m bringing yourself a casserole and a spa gift card. If you’re not the mama of a medically complex kid, you are my hero too. If you’re one of our teachers…hero. If you’re just barely hanging on…still my hero. And, hang in there, sister. Because my head is too full of snot to know much, but I know this: that every hard/busy/overwhelming/awful/wrecking season gives way eventually. To sun and warmth and rest. It’s coming, I promise. We were made to do hard things. So roll up your sleeves and dive into the deep end of the crazy pool because you. can. swim. I’m already there, treading water, my nose just barely above the surface, but I will tread this water until my arms fall off because even my hardest days are all first-world problems. Girl, you’re amazing and capable. You’ve got this sucker all wrapped up. I’m proud to know you. Carry on. And if we meet in public, could you just ignore how badly I need waxing and how I’m wearing yesterday’s shirt and smell of desperation and gummy bears? And I’ll do the same. Bigger fires to fight, man. Bigger fires.
this is me being real.