Reason Number 19: Sick Days

The 19th reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is sick days.  Sick days are a nuisance and a struggle.  Sick days require heated negotiations with spouses about work schedules and doctor appointments.  Sick days force the cancelling and rescheduling of obligations and holing up in a house that gets increasingly messier as illness lingers.  No matter how the distribution of time off work and duties at home are distributed, it is always a hassle and an exercise in guilt management.   Sick days are to be avoided and minimized at all costs.  They are not a reason to cry.

Last Saturday morning, Clayton erupted in an unusual streak of obstinacy and crabbiness over a make up basketball game.  He complained and whined and argued about attending his game, about his lunch, about wearing shoes, about the weather, about every solitary thing he could think to act up about.  He is normally a relatively easy going kid, so his behavior was a mystery.  Until after the game later that day, when he crawled in alongside where I lay elevating my sore foot, wrapped his skinny arm around me, and fell deep asleep.  He woke hours later, burning with fever, his eyes bright with misery.  He remained this way for the better part of 3 days—snuggly and sluggish, his only symptoms a nearly constant fever and an utter lack of appetite and energy.  I couldn’t help but remember a similar day years ago when Grace and I were both sick—suffering a violent stomach bug simultaneously.  I remember lying together, miserable but utterly, effortlessly connected—watching some movie with Miley Cyrus and a beach. Was there a sick dad or something?  I can’t remember, but I remember her skinny body twined with mine, a shared bottle of sprite we could each barely stomach.  She was miles away last weekend, competing in another volleyball tournament, and my boy and I spent most of the weekend cuddled under the covers or in front of the fire.  I didn’t miss Grace, or remember the days and hours I’d spent caring for her when she fell ill, my body and my presence the most preferred of all medicine.  Not crying.

Clay’s illness struck over a holiday weekend when the older girls had, once again, scattered to separate corners of the Midwest for sports’ tournaments.  He and I took long afternoon naps all three days while the lives of the others came and went around us.  Lucy went to a friend’s house and Chad took her snowmobiling for the better part of one afternoon.  Sam went out for lunch with friends and then to basketball practice.  Chad went to work and to the grocery store.  Clay and I snuggled and watched the clock for our medicine—Tylenol for him, still occasional pain meds for me.  Grace was utterly absent.  She never called and only texted twice—once with a practical question about a prescription she’s taking, once with the briefest of updates about the tournament.  I didn’t linger on memories of her skinny little girl body snuggled to mine because it was obviously better for her to be far away avoiding the germs.  Not crying.

I know moms with smaller families than mine give up their big kids to college, but I never can quite figure out how that works, exactly.  How do you give up your big kid without a little one to wrap his skinny arms around you when he’s not feeling the greatest?  How do you give up those easy, endless afternoons of snuggles and soup when illness strikes and you somehow find a pocket of time in which to doze with their sweet limbs tangled with yours, their hot breath on your neck, their sweaty heads on your shoulder?  Not crying.

  I vividly remember the first time they called me from daycare to come get my sick baby Grace.  Who could forget the livid red cheeks, the fever bright eyes, the desperate relief when she caught sight of me rushing towards her aching with guilt and sorrow for her lonely suffering among strangers?  She was my first, and so many of the events of her life are etched irreparably on my heart.  I couldn’t tell you the first time any of the others were called out of daycare—a working mom learns to live with those steady doses of guilt and regret.  But I remember Grace’s blonde curls plastered to her little round head, and her chubby arms reaching eagerly to me.  I remember how she sagged against me and my heart filled with the exact same measure of relief.  Those were simultaneously the worst and the best moments of working motherhood—getting the dreaded call to come retrieve an ill child and having to rearrange and reorganize a tightly scheduled life on the fly.  But then the sweet, unfamiliar quiet of a home seldom visited in the middle of a weekday—the sense that you and she had carved out a tiny bubble of solitude and calm right in the middle of your normally wild, noisy world.  And the impossible dearness of a busy child, content—nay, desperate—for the comfort of constant contact with your body, a fuzzy head tucked beneath your chin, two powerful hearts beating chest to chest. Not crying.

In so many ways, I’ve grown a bit numb to these hassles and heartaches of daily life.  A family with two working parents settles into and around such predictable disruptions in daily routine.  The discussions have been remarkably similar for the better part of two decades—“I can cover until noon, and then I have to be in the office by 1; I can be home by three; I have to go in at seven, I have a presentation, an interview, a delivery, a conference call, a meeting with my boss, a meeting with the bank, can your mom do it?  What about your mom? I can call my dad...“. We figured it out, day after day and year after year.  We are still figuring it out for the littles, but we’ve gradually emerged on the other side of the sick day gauntlet for the three biggest.  Just a week ago, my other big girl suffered from the same illness as Clay, and insisted on staying alone.  “I’m fine, mom” she assured me.  And she was.  We texted a few times.  I brought her Tylenol when I got home from work.  She maintained control of the remote and enjoyed the silence of our never quiet home for many hours.  She didn’t need me.  Grace hasn’t needed me for much when she’s sick for many years.  It certainly didn’t escape my notice that last weekend, as I was essentially joined at the hip to her littlest brother, my biggest girl was miles away and utterly un-homesick.  Not crying.

But my sick boy needed me.  I relished the feel of his heavy, tousled head on my chest.  I even savored the two, long, restless nights when we tucked his feverish body between us in our bed.  The years are so short.  Grace will probably never, ever, climb between her dad and I for comfort from a fever dream or an aching head again.  She won’t lay her head across my body in such an utterly unselfconscious quest for comfort.  She still needs me.  She still loves me.  But when she’s sick, she retreats to the quiet of her own room, hustles my bustling concern out the door in the mornings for the promise of solitude and silence through the entirety of a work day.  Not crying.

Of course I know it’s better this way.  I shudder to imagine all the hours and days of work I have missed in caring for sick little ones.  Having big kids, not the least of whom is my biggest kid, who prefer to stay alone is so much less disruptive than having clinging little ones.  I spent years wishing I wasn’t perpetually wakened in the night by the tossing and turning of a small third body in a bed built for two.  It is so much easier to care for a child who needs an occasional drink refill or medicine dose or text message and not constant physical contact for days at a time.  Next year, when Grace gets sick, she’ll call to ask my advice on insurance and cough medicine, but she won’t need me for snuggles or middle of the night comfort.  It’s just sick days and couch time and bottles of sprite.  It’s just sleepless nights that are likely over for good, good riddance. It’s just a precious little body—now big and strong and no longer wholly mine—that occasionally suffers an annoying battle with some minor bug and finally, finally, leaves me alone.  I’m not crying, you’re crying.

Reason Number 18: Winter Driving

The 18th reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is winter driving.  Winter driving is, for anyone born and raised in the Midwest, an unfortunate reality of daily life.  No one can avoid the perils and, dare I say, triumphs, of learning to drive in all sorts of weather, not the least of which involves ice, snow, sleet, and wind.  

Travel sports season is fully upon us, and last weekend had us tightly scheduled and heading in separate directions—one daughter west to Ames to play in a basketball tournament, one daughter north to Rochester for a volleyball scrimmage, the remaining family to stay home for basketball and volleyball commitments of their own.  And, of course, for some of us—obligations for the hobby we are most committed to—laundry.

Friday morning we received a text from Grace’s teammate.  ”R. Has influenza.  V. Contagious and can’t play this weekend.  Cancelling hotel room now.”  R is Grace’s best friend and her parents had planned to be her ride and chaperone for the weekend.  We had suspected this might happen, and had consequently made hasty alternative arrangements before work.  Grace and I to Rochester, Chad and Claire to Ames, Sam to Grandpa’s, littles to choose among the three.  It was a feasible plan, for the most part, involving some schedule jockeying but no more than usual.  The biggest problem was one that has plagued us for almost 8 weeks now.  I still can’t drive.

I can chaperone and provide adult oversight.  I can still use my credit card and make decisions.  But I can’t walk far or fast, and I can’t drive.  I could attend, but Grace would have to do all the driving.  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but on the fly, it was feasible.  Nothing to cry about.

Except for the snowstorm.  Her little brother’s game—which would have entailed only a ten minute drive across town—was cancelled due to weather.  And we were contemplating driving 3 hours north and 3 hours west, respectively, to attend youth sporting events.  Not only that, our only option was to put our lives in the hands of a seventeen year old driver who has had a single, scant year of practice driving in the snow.  It was a bit daunting to say the least.  Not crying.

Nevertheless, after studying DOT traffic maps and weather apps, we determined that the directions we were heading were virtually unaffected by the storm that had honestly just barely grazed us.  Less than an hour of driving in either direction would take us completely out of the danger zone.  If we left in plenty of time and took it easy, it didn’t look bad.  Rochester didn’t get a flake of snow.  Ames was clear.

So we packed up and headed out, Grace at the wheel.  We have repeated this scenario a hundred times in recent years—heading out early on a frosty morning for games and tournaments, with a packed cooler and pillows and blankets for the long, boring drives through stubbly cornfield covered landscapes.  The notable exception this time, was that I was riding shotgun and not behind the wheel.  It was nothing to cry about.  I mean, I like being in charge—literally and figuratively behind the wheel—but accommodations had to be made for the plan to work, and Grace was more than willing to drive.   Not crying.  

My recovery from my recent surgery has been nothing if not a lesson in humility and surrender.  It is nearly impossible to be fully the boss of your own time and circumstances (much less those of anyone else) when you can’t drive.  I’ve been slowly, painfully learning patience, resigning my clutching grasp on my way and my how for something a bit looser and more open.  It’s not my natural way, and it hasn’t always been pretty.  Who am I kidding?  It hasn’t ever been pretty.

There was something very metaphoric, though, in turning over the keys to my daughter.  She has been driving for several years now, first under the limitations of a school permit, more recently with the full freedom of a driver’s license.  She’s been driving to out of town volleyball practices for the better part of a year.  This is not new.  What IS new, is her driving with me in the passenger seat.  Before this surgery, I can’t think of a lot of times when we were together and she drove.  It just wasn’t the natural way of it, once we were through the awkward permit years when adult supervision was required.  Not crying.

It occurred to me as we drove that getting her full drivers’ license was really the beginning of this transition phase which will end when she leaves for college next fall.  Much of modern parenthood, especially from late grade school, takes place behind the wheel.  I felt nothing but relief when Grace could finally schlep herself from place to place—it felt like (and was!) a 20% reduction in my after work obligations.  We still attended every game and competition—but we were free from practices and meetings and team dinners.  Early on, it didn’t occur to me that I might miss those hours in the car.  Until they were gone—for good—and precious minutes I used to have with my girl simply disappeared.  Not crying.

On the way home this weekend, I had to sit in the back for most of the trip home.  After less resting and elevating than I probably should have been doing through the two days, I was in a fair amount of pain and needed to stretch out and put my foot up.  I climbed awkwardly into the backseat and settled in.  Grace had GPS and her music and the two younger kids were settled in around me beneath blankets.  I eventually fell asleep, and when I awoke, I was struck by the odd juxtaposition of the situation.  It was like a symbolic passing of the baton.  Gradually, and grudgingly, we have allowed her more freedoms and more hours and miles away from us.  It is just the natural way of things and not a reason to cry.  I did not, for instance, recall a squalling blue eyed baby girl raging from her car seat every time we got in the car.  I did not imagine all the miles—the hotels and the volleyball stadiums—that I had shared with this girl over her lifetime.  I did not think how, next year, she would have to drive these miles for herself or how, at this crossroads, it will be a now and forever type transaction.  We won’t be going back from this handoff.  She’ll drive off into her future now and rarely be tucked into my backseat again.  Eventually, perhaps, we will come full circle and she’ll drive my ancient self around as my body weakens and ages and we complete the inevitable transition from caretaker to cared for.  Not crying.

It was a blissful, terrible moment—having time whizz forward and backward like that as I sat in the far back seat alternately gazing out at snow covered farms and then the back of my daughter’s gleaming head.  She drove a bit too fast, but well, and we had no incidents or even close calls.  I restrained myself from offering too much advice (what little I did was met with sighs and eyerolls, of course.  One exchange ended with my sniping, “How many winters have you driven in?  One.  How many have I driven in?  Thirty.  I think I might know a few things“).  But for the most part I was quiet and she took the wheel—literally.  (I may have prayed a rosary or two to keep my mouth shut and my heart calm, but that’s neither here nor there).  After awhile, the kids began some sort of raucous guessing game that I couldn’t hear very well because of the loud music they insisted upon and I tolerated.  

We arrived home in the late afternoon, when the winter sun was just sinking over the horizon.  Grace uncomplainingly unloaded the car and then headed for the sanctuary of her room.  She neither commented on nor likely noticed the symbolic handoff we had just exchanged.  Of course I’ll drive again as soon as I can.  She’ll sleep in the passenger seat with her headphones and her blanket.  We’ll trade back for the rest of this year, and next year, she’ll step fearlessly into the driver’s seat of her life while I watch and wonder at her confidence and courage.  She’ll drive away (too fast), and I’ll watch from the backseat, idly dreaming of car seats and road trips, trusting her to get where she needs to go.  She’ll learn, as we all do, how to navigate slippery roads and complicated routes.  She’ll learn it through miles and hours traveled without me even in the backseat.  I’ll be here, and my life will move on and she’ll race forward into a future none of us can yet see.  

But this weekend was just a weird road trip.  It’s just me recovering from an injury forcing her behind the wheel for a few days.  Not everything is a metaphor for her leaving me in a few months.  It’s just winter driving.  I’m not crying, you’re crying.