A friend I rarely talk to these days messaged me. She said she could tell things were looking up for me. I suppose she meant based on my intermittent Facebook posts – those unwitting barometers of my late-night screen-time zone out, which also reveal my distance to the world beyond mommyhood.
This blog post started as one of those Facebook pronouncements, but I have too many words that need to get out. So here’s what’s on my mind…
Last night, I did not have to tiptoe to get into bed. Baby boy slept in a big boy bed in his brother’s bedroom. It was a joyful, hopeful milestone. It was the first night without Raphael in my room within almost arm’s reach since he came home from the NICU three plus years ago.
Today, Raphael went pee – standing up – in the little toilet in the family restroom at Children’s Hospital. And, he had a good pulmonology checkup. “His lungs sound great!” Dr. B said – twice.
Tomorrow, I’m gonna kick Rapha’s noisy oxygen-making machine outta my house.
So yes, I am going to say it: “Things are looking up.”
(Quick, say it with me: “Kine hora!” Avoid the evil eye, a curse in reverse.)
Yet, I dare say I can almost smell freedom. Freedom for me. Freedom for my son.
I know that actually tasting freedom is still miles away. (Cue Robert Frost: “And miles to go before I sleep…”)
It’s been four days since I picked apples upon apples from the overburdened tree in my front yard. Greg and I baked a big apple crisp Saturday night, yet overflowing bowls of washed and polished fruit remain on my kitchen table. Elijah’s been amusing himself by rolling the little orbs onto the floor and pretending to juggle.
We took our fill of apple wedges slathered in honey: a symbol of sweetness for Rosh Hashanah, a plea and a wish for a sweet new year. I love how the honey’s sticky sugariness contrasts with the apples’ crisp tartness.
Meanwhile, my yard is littered with apple remains, a regular party for squirrels. I would like to climb my apple tree and get rid of all that fruit attracting wasps and birds alike. There really isn’t time for that, but somehow, lately, there has been time for a few moments of just nothing, here and there.
So, yes, please, I would like more honey for my apples. I would like to keep looking up. I would like to expect the best.
But I am guarded because the past few years have been rocky. Worm-eaten, if you will. Sweet and tart at the same time.
I suppose I will do what I have been doing. Be disgusted by the squishy wormy parts, make some noise about their grotesqueness, and then, cut them out and enjoy my fruit.