The sense of no sense

Oh, my dear dearies, met and unmet.

Yesterday was one of those appallingly, shockingly, disastrously awful days that starts off bad and ends with your eyelids turning into swollen purple slits.

“Your eyelids look white on top,” observed Hattie, as I gasped and wondered if I might puke on my children’s heads from crying so hard. I think she meant, “Your eyebrows look white compared to your eyelids,” but I cannot be sure. All I know is that she was looking at me with a most incredulous expression, one I wish I had captured on film, as soon she will be an easily unimpressed six-year-old, like her older sister.

All I am sure of is that it was one miserable day, and I did not realize I was susceptible to Actual Pacing and Hand-Wringing until I found myself doing just that, like a sad, deranged Victorian ghost.

Pacing and Hand-Wringing, and Clinging to the Washer, an appliance I find I count on for moral support when times get rough. I clung to it in my birthday suit when I was in labor with Hattie, and it didn’t let me down—not then, nor this time. It is always cool and smooth on my cheek (any cheek I wish to press against it) and it never judges. Plus it makes wonderful sloshing sounds louder than my sloshy waterpark howling.

Some days, like yesterday, I am fairly certain all I will be left with in time is my children, two dogs, and the washer.

Today my eyelids are still purple. Well, lilac. Lavender. I went with it and tried to pass off the shade as a glorious eyeshadow application.

I said to the girls yesterday, mid-howl, “I MUST BE REALLY SCARING YOU GUYS, I AM SORREEEEEEE.” Blub glub, etc.

Hattie began laughing, amazed, saying in a most impressed tone of voice, “I never HEARD a mommy cry like THAT.”

David kindly said, “Oh, yeah. Grownups definitely cry, sure. Sometimes we all just need to give our feelings a place to go.”

H. began laughing harder. “It’s just that I NEVER heard a mommy LIKE THAT. Not like THAT.”

Meanwhile, Sophie brought me her duck Webkinz and tucked it under my chin.

“I don’t mah-mah-mah-mean to sc-sc-scare you guys, I’m so sorreeeeeee,” I attempted again.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” said Sophie calmly. “You’re not scaring us.”

“You can s-s-say I am if I am,” I tried. “I’m just h-h-having an awful-l-l day.”

“You’re not scaring us,” Hattie reassured. “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s okay. Do you need to lie down and have a snuggle?”

“R-r-really? Be-be-because I’m sort of sc-scaring myself.” Hiccup.

So they snuggled me, my lovely warm girls. Sophie tucked me into bed (after some “grownup medicine” that would have taken down a rhino) and tucked the duck back under my chin, and Sophie, the duck and I fell asleep at 8pm.

There is little that makes sense these days. Being tucked in by your six-year-old is one of these things. I don’t intend to make it a habit, but it was nice.

We talked about why I was crying so hard, before we drifted off to sleep. Sophie wisely said, “Maybe this is an oper-tuna-tee.”

Again, it does not make sense, not exactly, when your six-year-old sees an “oper-tuna-tee” in your misery. But it’s a beautiful thing to observe, her observation.

I am of the camp that feels like hiding my tears is of no help to them or to me. For me, as a child, the scariest times were when I was sensing Bad Murky Stuff that no one, no one, was talking about. So I cry. I tell them I know it will all be okay, that I will find a way to make it okay, but that sometimes grownups get scared too and freak the heck out.

They nodded with great compassion. This makes sense to kids, I think. I think they find it oddly reassuring to occasionally be the ones tucking stuffed animals under chins and kissing boo-boos. I’m not talking constant caregiving and giving up their childhood to attend to their Sad, Deranged Victorian Ghost of a Mother. Just the occasional chance to be let in, to be trusted with the hard stuff, to be told that the sadness their little radar is picking up is accurate, and that their compassion is appreciated, and that they don’t have to make anything better. That their hugs and kisses are just what’s needed. There is beauty in learning your hugs and kisses can make a difference, for parents and kids.

Sophie and I talked about our top three fears as we went to sleep. Two of mine were teenage boys and swans. I didn’t tell her about the IV phobia, because she has yet to encounter that contraption, and I don’t want to mess up the kid for life on that count. I can’t tell you what her fears were (“off the record, Mommy”), but what she said reminded me again of that amazing Kid Paradox: the fact that they can all be so perfectly alike, and yet so perfectly unique and incredible. Parents always think their kid is tops. And every parent is exactly right.

The sense of no sense.