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rivkaMy foot keeps the steady rhythm of the glider going. Her foot against my thigh is scalding. I press my cool cheek against her hot forehead, breathe in the scent of illness underneath the scent of Johnson & Johnson's baby shampoo.
I have come out of the darkness, floor-length robe silhouetted in the light from the hall, with droppers of sweet sticky medicine and a quiet murmured monologue less important for its content than its reassuring tone. I put on the lullabye CD and sing quietly along. She coughs and coughs.
She asks to go back in the crib, and I retreat to the bottom of the stairs to wait. But the coughing doesn't slow, and then comes a desperate wail of "Mommy!" I go back up, scoop her hot little body into my arms, discover that she's coughed hard enough to throw up. I strip off her clothes while Michael strips the crib sheets, sponge her down with a warm wet washcloth. She coughs hard and throws up again. And still my foot keeps the glider moving back and forth, back and forth, and my voice keeps murmuring nothing that I'll remember in the morning.
It's one of the times I feel most connected to my own mother. I remember her coming out of the darkness: thick, fuzzy aqua robe, cool hands, quiet voice. I remember that she never seemed worried or upset or annoyed or even tired. I remember the hot scared sweaty uncomfortable tearfulness being smoothed away.
So I rock, and I sing, and I whisper reassurances. Like my mother before me. Like generations of mothers before me. Like thousands and thousands of mothers all across the world who are up tonight with a sick child, rocking and soothing and waiting for the fever to go down. And I don't feel upset or annoyed or even tired.
I just feel like a mother.
[Started this entry last night, at 4 a.m. This morning she is still feverish. Her doctor has prescribed rest and chicken soup.]
I have come out of the darkness, floor-length robe silhouetted in the light from the hall, with droppers of sweet sticky medicine and a quiet murmured monologue less important for its content than its reassuring tone. I put on the lullabye CD and sing quietly along. She coughs and coughs.
She asks to go back in the crib, and I retreat to the bottom of the stairs to wait. But the coughing doesn't slow, and then comes a desperate wail of "Mommy!" I go back up, scoop her hot little body into my arms, discover that she's coughed hard enough to throw up. I strip off her clothes while Michael strips the crib sheets, sponge her down with a warm wet washcloth. She coughs hard and throws up again. And still my foot keeps the glider moving back and forth, back and forth, and my voice keeps murmuring nothing that I'll remember in the morning.
It's one of the times I feel most connected to my own mother. I remember her coming out of the darkness: thick, fuzzy aqua robe, cool hands, quiet voice. I remember that she never seemed worried or upset or annoyed or even tired. I remember the hot scared sweaty uncomfortable tearfulness being smoothed away.
So I rock, and I sing, and I whisper reassurances. Like my mother before me. Like generations of mothers before me. Like thousands and thousands of mothers all across the world who are up tonight with a sick child, rocking and soothing and waiting for the fever to go down. And I don't feel upset or annoyed or even tired.
I just feel like a mother.
[Started this entry last night, at 4 a.m. This morning she is still feverish. Her doctor has prescribed rest and chicken soup.]
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Date: 2007-03-24 05:06 pm (UTC)