A Cup of Kindness

Per usual, we hosted a spectacular display of a holiday run amok. From an overly salted $128 beef tenderloin to a surprise day surgery for one of our younger household members, we really know how to do it up here in this very merry multigenerational home. I’ll spare you the details of the day surgery to protect the innocent; I am, after all, a mother first and writer second. At least I think that’s the order. Not to worry. All is relatively calm and moderately bright.

The funny thing is, surgery was just one of the things that happened this week and that really says a lot for the number of balls we have up in the air here. Tuesday evening, for example, Mom tumbled a bit coming up the stairs from the basement because my dang kids “left the lights on” and she had gone downstairs to turn them off. What resulted was a Jackson Pollock replica on our kitchen and bathroom floors if Pollock were to have ever painted something entitled “Crime Scene”. She’s 87 and not only is her skin like paper, she bleeds like a stuck pig when cut. “Um, Mama, come downstairs.” J.D. said after he had happened upon the artist known as Nana at work. When I saw all the streaks and little puddles of blood I didn’t know what I was going to find. There was Mom, sitting with leg outstretched and blood dripping down it. Oh. My. God. I cleaned her up, dressed the wound, cleaned the floors, demanded urgent care for the next day given her wound history, and we all said goodnight. End. Scene.

The next day came and went, Jan took Mom and Dad to urgent care, and Mom’s wound got proper treatment. Yay! That afternoon, I got out of school early and got myself a booster for Covid. Though I was fully aware that I would most likely feel like crap the next day, I got it anyway. With Advil on board, I went to school the day after and did my best to entertain the kids with short holiday movies on Netflix with the language set to Spanish. I felt awful but I guess when you know it’s a fake kind of awful it’s more manageable and/or one is expected to suck it up. After work, I managed to shop for a few things we needed, returned home, and nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Christmas Eve I had lots of plans to finish everything I needed to do….that is, of course, until J.D. awoke and promptly threw up. The kids scattered like cockroaches as soon as they saw the bucket in J.D.’s hands. They knew, of course, that their fate for Christmas was in the balance. What had promised to be a hectic day came to a screeching halt. Instead of running all over everywhere, I sat by the light of my tree and watched my oldest sleep in between waves of vomiting. I sipped an IPA, lit a fire, and wrapped a few presents. Though a revolting development, there was peace in that pause and I leaned in. Less to do turned out to be just what I needed.

Christmas Eve slipped by, our company for that evening was cancelled, J.D.’s vomit waves slowed down, and Maire and Isaac bounced off the walls and woke me up at 4 the next morning. Though I tried to send them back to bed, it didn’t really work. We all ended up downstairs at 4:30, J.D. came down at 5, looked around for about 5 minutes, and quickly waved the white flag. Within a few hours, our living room was destroyed and Isaac was absolutely dying to open presents under the tree. J.D. roused, we all ate breakfast (except for J.D.), and present opening commenced. J.D., on the other hand, went back upstairs after attempting to be social and functional for a little while. Though I hesitated to forge on with our Christmas Day plans, we did have a $128 beef tenderloin ready to serve and J.D.’s little episode seemed to be waning. Mom prepped the meat and I did my best attempt at making a charcuterie board. While all this was going on, J.D.’s vomiting had subsided but pain had not. He looked it up on his phone and diagnosed himself pretty quickly. Three hours later he found out he was right, medical professionals confirmed it, he’s all better now, moving on. Like I said, I’ll spare the details. My kids, by the way, know that I write and write rather naked truth. They think I’m a big deal. I’m not. But I’ll let them think that for now.

As I sit here in my cozy bed and write, listening to J.D. play his XBox with his friends, I feel like I have aged about 20 years in one week. I just yelled at him for yelling too loud. He’s clearly on the mend and so am I. Nothing, not even Covid, phases me anymore. I have heard and seen a lot in my years. The ability to feign shock or surprise is no longer on my list of talents. “Oh really?” I say without raising an eyebrow whenever I hear something new. I’m sure there’s something that could shock me but I’m pretty sure I’d handle it a lot like Carol handles zombies on The Walking Dead. I always did like her character and now I know why. I’m her. “Oh look, a zombie.” I’d say if one wandered into my home. I’d casually stab it with an icepick in the head and then make a casserole and maybe some lemon bars. That’s just how I roll. I quite like it that way, I think. The opposite is just no way to live, it really isn’t.

And so, with most of our health intact, we greet the year 2022 with open arms and low expectations. I won’t resolve to do anything differently this year, in fact the only thing I’d like to change is the fact that I keep doing things on my checklist in my dreams and get a little confused when they’re not done in real life. What is that? I guess I need to transfer whatever inertia I have in my dream life to the here and now. Got it. I think the bottom line is that maybe we should all aim to do less in this new year. I, and you, deserve a break. Cheers to good health and may you tak’ many cups of kindness for auld lang syne instead of fretting this new year away.