So the girl has pink eye. Hahaha! (Madwomen's caw. Yet again.) Is it Karma? Is this family in some mad swirl of karmic misfortune? This, after not too long ago being rushed to the hospital with a bad infection that had crept from her little toe to nearly her knee—completely unnoticed by me until she came home with a fever and pointed to the red line worming its way up her left leg. Truly, it's become a comedy of ails.
And I'm beginning to question my mothering skills.
I scramble eggs, steam vegetables and slice watermelon. I do whatever it takes to not lose my cool, to refrain from admonishing myself, to quell frustration over yet another setback and delay. Another day in which I'll get even less done.
Yes. It's minor. Keep it in perspective. Just another trip to the doctor's office. A Monday out of school. On the bright side, I imagine we've by now met our health insurance deductible.
This morning, on Blogger analytics—of which I rarely visit as it doesn't tell me anything other than referring sites or urls or keyword searches—I found under "searched keywords": girls with pulled up school skirts.
I've experienced chills several times over the last few months, but gazing at this, I froze. The search pointed to a photo, from last year, of my daughter in her school skirt. What was I thinking? And I was writing (more than a year ago, and poorly so) about tailors and uniforms!
I question the wisdom of ever writing about my children. I rationalize by telling myself that Lulu is my daughter's nickname. Not her real name. Not even close to her real name. Lulu. As in Lucy. As in Luuuucy, you've got some 'splaining to do! (This, I kid you not, was a vocal warm up favored by my former voice coach, but it happens to be the perfect catchphrase for my daughter—especially when I take it up a few octaves.) Oh, Luuuucy, what do you have to say for yourself?
Keyword activity it not limited to perverts. Would-be writers Google quite a bit, too. Especially those with a certain weakness in the apology letters department. To wit:
1) sorry handwritten;
2) apology letter for boyfriend;
3) sweet apology letters to him; and,
4) letter of apology to a sister in law.
Come on people, if you cannot compose an original, heartfelt apology letter to your beloved (well, maybe your sister-in-law is not a beloved, in which case you oughtn't bother) you ought to rethink the relationship. Actually, your beloved ought to rethink the relationship. If only the beloved knew. The would-be-writer-offenders are ultimately directed to this post. I wonder if they might try my son's approach.
Where was I going with this? Oh, I know, I was about to fall apart. I was want for a rant. And a caw. In the grand scope (of which I've seen many lately) of things pink eye is nothing, yes, yes. It's a day of missed school. It's gel in the eye. It's a nudge to get that new pair of specs for the girl—ones she can actually see from. (Yet more evidence of mother's neglect!) Contacts won't do for days. It's finding my twelve-year-old daughter in her room, head buried in TIME magazine, reading "Playing Favorites —Never mind what your parents told you. They had a favorite child —and if you have kids, so do you. Why it's hardwired into all of us." It's Lu wryly smiling and asking: Do you have a favorite, Ma? It's me responding: Well darlin', yes I do. (Her eyes widen.) I have a favorite son. And I have a favorite daughter. Lu, again: Oh Ma, that's a good answer. That's the best answer ever. Come over here, that deserves a big hug.
We've learned to put a lot on hold during the past few months. It's really not so bad. But I tell you this, if the U.S. draft is reinstated, that'll be the final straw. I'll be hightailing it to Canada. I'll get a little apartment in Montreal and my son will attend McGill University. Let 'em try finding us. We'll be on hold.