blessings in disguise

I was feeling totally unmotivated to write. No, not exactly, I wrote quite a bit, but not what I had set out to do. I had the whole day but what did I do? I went out for coffee with my favorite librarian, and then out to lunch at the Indian buffet with Kirsten, Peregrine and her parents, minus my child, who was being cared for and playing happily. I came home to an empty house. Ah yes, empty, nothing to do but write. But then there where dishes which seemed to be accruing like the interest on a loan with unfavorable lending terms, so I have made a goal for myself to keep my kitchen if not immaculate, at least presentable, and since I have done next to no cooking this should be easy. Papers seem to multiply, much like Idealist Savant's secretly mating stuff, and I struggle to not throw up my hands in utter weariness, I try different places to sit, I plug in as my juice is running low, I sit at the "dining room table" which needs a good scrubbing because I. took a blue vis-a-vis marker for overhead projections (not teachers? my utter dorkdom is quite clear, I know) Actually come to think of it, I don't ever, or hardly ever use overhead projectors, I remember how proficient all my high school language teachers were with reinforcing vocabulary and grammar using those quaint little culturally "appropriate" colored laminate sheets. I am not that sort of a teacher. But I digress. I am struck by a wave of terrible loneliness. I try to leave one writing project and chase it away with words. I am marginally successful. I wash all the yams that I bought and bake them in the oven while I write. I remember that I haven't eaten anything since the single plate of lunch. I make myself soy-protein boosted oatmeal, with milk for extra protein. It tastes funny but I eat it anyway. I finish one jug so that there won't be two gallon-size containers cluttering my fridge. I bought one bag of salad greens, a bag of cranberries, yams, a corn bread mix, two loaves of sprouted-soy whole grain bread - this is what I feed my child, who is a toast addict, but each piece has something like 8 grams of protein so who cares if she eats it with nutella or cream cheese, right? I remembered two bags of yellow onions. So what was I planning on eating all week? I have some frozen salmon, which I suppose I can defrost and cook after tomorrow. Some chicken breasts so that I can make a stock and celery and carrot to complete a soup. There are a few tomatoes and chile, I can add them to salad or make a soup base. I have in the pantry: couscous, differing pastas, basmati and risotto. I have frozen shrimp. Damn! forgot to buy another bag of frozen peas, which I like to throw in small quantities to add some green to the spectrum. I have cereal for her too, and of course white cheddar macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets as the emergency catch all for her (I wouldn't be caught dead eating them myself.) And I have no desire to eat. The yams baked up nicely and I peeled back their skin, cut them into chunks and set them aside to candy with maple syrup tomorrow. That is all I am responsible for, Kathy said that everything else was under control. I will take her word for it. I have to travel exactly 300 feet to Kirsten's back door, and that it precisely the distance that I am willing to commute for this meal. I hear a thump on the door. "Mommy, mommy!" I open it, she comes bustling in the door, in good spirits though she asks me, "and why did I come home? because I wanted to go to sleep, I was getting cranky." We say goodbye and I close the door and lock it.
I now have absolutely no desire to keep writing, but I do, I make my little reflection excercise. I get her ready for bed and I settle in to my horrible wrist position with the bedside lamp to light my way. And then it happens.
First full-fledged crisis, she coughs and gasps, and then begins projectile vomiting. I try to talk to her to get her to react to jump up and head for the bathroom like she has been trained but she is a zombie, she is paralyzed in her illness. I rub her back until she can stop and then I make her run to the bathroom. I quickly pull all the afected bedclothes from the bed, making certain not to contaminate anything that was previously untainted. She huddles and shakes in the bathroom. I get her into the shower and she shivers and cries that she is cold. I remain calm, but I want to cry. "It's ok baby, it's ok." "I'm sorry mommy," she apologizes over and over and I say, "It's not your fault, it's not your fault sweetie, don't apologize." After she is showered I take the previously top sheet and just throw it out in the dumpster, sneaking the ten feet from my front door to the trash receptacle in nothing but underwear and a t-shirt. I hope that no one is walking by, and luckily, no one sees me, except perhaps someone from the neighboring complex with binoculars, but if they are that intent on watching, well they have already gotten an eyefull so what do I care, right?

So what is my point about blessings in disguise you wonder? Well because I had to shake myself out of the haze to address this crisis, I was able to sit down and finish my chapter, another 2,000 words. I also had the forethought to have her bring her beach bucket just in case she got sick again, and it fit perfectly over her face as she purged once again an hour later. Bad, painful and distasteful things can, and often do lead to other positive changes/ effects in our lives. I just wanted to remind myself of this. It is easy to dwell on the unfortunate ill, but sometimes that is precisely what makes us take stock of our own actions (or inactions) and change the course of our unfolding narrative.

But, now I don't know if I should trust her tummy and bucket to go to sleep, or if I should just stay up all night keeping vigil and writing... decisions, decisions.