The last month has been one big battle of the bug around these parts – first The Kid got some random, high fevers that had the school nurse calling me in the middle of the day to come pick him up, which is not the easiest feat to accomplish when my butt is in New York City and his in the ‘burbs. Then his nastiness decided I tasted better and feasted on me for two days while he ran around wild and happy. Only to turn around a day later with another fever, this time raging, and a case of strep throat, landing us at the pharmacy laden with a prescription for antibiotics, ready to fend off those streptococcal pharyngitis motherfuckers.
Which we did with gusto, managing a whole six or seven illness-free days around Chez Blaylock, to the point we started strutting around, feeling all big and shit, healthy and fit. Little did we know, the joke was on us.
This past Sunday at 3 in the morning, I heard it. And I must digress here for a second to expound upon the amazing seventh sense us moms have, the one no one talks about: the ability to sleep through world war III, but hear the slightest, and I mean slightest sound of distress from your kid. That was me. Up late writing, dead to the world, and then BAM! Wide awake as a motherfucker with that first gag…
and then the barf gates opened. I walked into The Kid’s bedroom to find him on his side, vomiting up his guts. I helped him through it, without gagging myself – another mom superpower that kicks in when necessary, because anyone else vomits in front of me, and all I want to do is heave. And that was us for the next twelve hours. Followed up by twelve hours of fever, and finally after another twelve hours of solid rest, he walked down the steps Wednesday afternoon with a grin on his face, ready to watch TV and eat some real food. And just like that, my entire body was suddenly achy and cold.
So began my two days of 102 fevers.
And the craziest. sex. dreams. ever.
This is all a very long way of saying I cannot wait for spring and some warmer weather and the dismissal of all of this funk and gunk and nastiness that has attacked us the last several weeks.
And for those of y’all who don’t know – it’s tough to write when you’re sick or dealing with someone small and sick. But here and there, I managed to produced some good stuff. In between the doctor visits and medicines and baths, I wrote some kick ass poetry and I broke through my first ever writing block (with loads of help from my good friends and fellow Write Bitches Kayti and Laura).
So far JUMA has been an exercise of writing in fits and starts, something I never do, and something I’ve been having trouble wrapping my head around, figuring out a way to conquer. But amidst the sickness, I did it and hot damn, it feels good. JUMA feels good. And to celebrate, here’s an eensy-teensy-weensy little taste:
Hope you like.
Now it’s back to writing…and ingesting more vitamin C than I ever imagined possible.