And now it all comes together, as I’m on my knees wondering why my funkadelic leopard print pjs are soaking wet. That story he told me, right before my eyes rolled back and drew the curtains on my feverish delirium.
“Hey mom. Guess what just happened? I pooped and peed at the same time! But it’s weird because I don’t know where my pee went.”
I’m kneeling in cold urine.
Normally I’d care but not tonight or today or whatever effing time in the universe this is. Everything seems to be magnificently blending in like the three day old mascara streaked across my face.
When you have a kidney infection, you just stop caring about pee on the floor. You’re too busy trying to not feel like dying and let me tell you, it’s hellish. I have sweat at least half my body weight through this weird internal deep freeze and reheating cycle. I get leg cramps and I saw my dead Aunt.
Just kidding she’s not dead yet.
My right kidney feels like the fist of Chuck Norris himself. Every time I cough, sneeze, breathe, walk, turn, pee, think, that fist clenches my side as if I were a human stress ball.
I’m a human stress ball.
I’ve never been more aware of an organ inside of my body in all of my life.
Thank you God for giving me kidneys and I’ll never mistreat them again.
Things I am also aware of:
That when I am sick, life is expected to carry on as usual.
My home is destroyed.
From Monday to whateverthehelltimeofyearitis, no one has done dishes, laundry, cooked a meal, made a lunch, or swept a floor – I now have dog hair tumbleweeds floating across my living room every time the furnace kicks on. My quaint little potted cactus adds that final je ne sais quoi to make you really feel like you’re in the Wild West.
While I had my head two inches from the toilet, I was able to marvel at the toothpaste located *gestures everywhere* here. I tried to employ my psychiatrist’s brighter side thinking so I imagined the gobs as works of art. My boys are like the friggen Picasso with toothpaste.
Narrator: But she was actually lying. Her left eye twitched every time she walked into the bathroom. She wanted to set the place on fire.
I would be visibly in pain and I was still asked without any hesitation mind you:
“I can’t find…”
“Did you wash…”
“How come you didn’t buy the chocolate granola bars?”
“Did you make me lunch?”
“What’s for supper?”
I made air for supper. Figure it out.
But you know what? I did end up doing the dishes, I still got the kid to school on time, to the dentist, to his doctor, to his swim class, necessary clothes were washed, lunches made, I still stayed (mostly) awake for bedtime routines that lasted 2 hours, I even picked out 2 Mother’s Day gifts just before I drove myself back to the doctors because I was still not well.
I sat in the waiting room by myself, sweating, while watching this kid play with a bin of empty sealed urine specimen cups while her mom yelled at her from a distance in both English and in French. There was a woman who kept petting and flicking her long brown hair and slurping her stinky coffee, another who kicked her shoes right off, one kid was eating Doritos.
I was so irritated by this.
Then my husband texts me:
“Mother’s Day cards are $8. WTF”
You. Piece. Of. Shi…..
You. Buy. The. Card.
The whole bloody rack.
And buy me soup.
He forgets the soup.
At whatevertheeffingtime it is, I’m in tears. I really don’t have the strength to take a shower, to mop up this pee off the floor. I go to the kitchen to get some water and there’s a text:
To the rescue.
Mother’s Day has always been a weird day for me. I didn’t want to celebrate my first because I didn’t feel like I was deserving of it. I failed at everything from breastfeeding to colic (as if I had any witchy witchcraft powers to make it go away – if I did, I’d be a billionaire) to postpartum depression and anxiety to not being able to stack wash cloths perfectly and keep specks of dog hair off of anything.
That first year was sheer madness.
I was in survival mode really.
Something finally clicked along the way during my talks with my psychiatrist and I don’t know when it happened. It did though.
You just have to be good enough.
Perhaps you’re reading this and you’re going through it now or have been through it – postpartum depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety, or just plain old mom slumps – and you’re struggling with today.
I’m looking around my house and my “good enough”?
Was practically super human.
And that’s said with confidence even while staring at the clump of grass sitting on the kitchen floor that my blind dog tracked in from outside.
Moms, we do so much for our little ones. We are cooks, house keepers, accountants, teachers, doctors, therapists, dance *cough* instructor in the kitchen, super shoddy seamstresses, the nooks and crannies where they land their heads or feet or elbows, the ultimate voice overs during story time, keeper of secrets and trinkets found in the park, night time monster slayers, cab drivers, and super fans….
The list goes on.
What you do every day Mama, is good enough and that is worth celebrating.
It’s worth celebrating even when you give your son a wrinkled up shirt to wear and goldfish and cheese for lunch.
He still squeezes your hand exactly three times just like he always does before he runs off with his friends.
But not before he says “I hope your kidneys feel better. I really do love you. So don’t die today.”
Should be in a Hallmark card.
Happy Mother’s Day xoxox
Ps. All I want is my house cleaned for Mother’s Day
PPS. Written from my cellphone in the comfort of my bed, so if it looks funky, sorry!
PPPS. Postpartum moms, it does get better. Promise.