Snapshots from a Sick Day

Do you ever have one of those days that cracks open in a profound sort of way and shows you its insides, like an egg?

I have those days occasionally. Things will be humming along when the world throws a write-in candidate onto my slate of things to do and the election gets called. I thought I would be having a morning with both kids out of the house, catching up on some work and going to an appointment; instead, I wound up rubbing one kid's shaky, nauseated back while the other nestled next to me watching Dinosaur Train. I could see, in my mind's eye, the massive pileup of freight cars as my plans to try and create some sense of order in my life jumped the trestle, but it was so nice and warm to snuggle on the couch. The sickly kid gradually felt better and we spent the rainy morning playing with Play-Doh like there was nothing else any of us would rather have been doing. Actually, that was the complete truth.

I took a snapshot of today and I'm adding it to my card deck-- the one I plan to pull out and go through slowly and methodically when I'm old and a widowed diabetic amputee with two partnered children living at other ends of the country. It is going to make one heck of a diversion from my Metamucil to remember how my little boy's hair smelled, incongruously, of cheese and baby shampoo. How my daughter still fit up under my arm when we read a book, at the age of 5, like she hadn't grown at all for several years.

I'm reading a book that I'm supposed to read for work and finding it a little bit difficult. It's an excellent read and worthwhile, but the characters are having the sorts of gut-wrenching regrets we all fear we might have once we round the corner to the shadier, stiller sides of our lives. Right now I sometimes have so much to do that I'm literally paralyzed with the enormity of it all, ever grateful for the never-ending clothing and feeding of little bodies that forces me into action. Occasionally, when they join the in-laws for a night and leave me alone here in the house, I sink into an exhausted heap. I get done not one single thing on the parallel list of tasks I have for moments like that- the ones I always should be doing, like home improvement or drawer organization or the rescue of precious memories from digitized limbo. (Two children, two baby books, and not a single picture more put into anything. How about you?)

Today when the shell cracked open I realized that there's not much time before it all slips out of the egg-- not much time until the egg white and yolk get whisked into oblivion, so to speak, and it won't be time for making plans, but remembering them.

Am I the only one with a crystal clear picture of myself at 83? She's shorter and with a long white braid coiled up at the neck and the exact same deep laugh-lines my Mammaw used to have, since we have the exact same face.

I'm filing her away again now. She's not me in that I'm not there yet, but I do occasionally send her little messages so she'll have something to think about:

"She loved to sing and made up songs about everything."

"Firetrucks dominated his every waking moment, and this morning he told me he dreamed about them, too."

"The cat was obnoxious even at 14 but still kneaded her claws like a kitten when we sat to watch TV."

"We all read books together for hours, then ate cheese quesadillas dipped in ketchup."

"Naptime, play time, dinner time, bedtime."

Remember...remember...remember.