Sick day

​It was well past bedtime when I noticed.

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It wasn’t exactly an itch, exactly, but there was something off about the way my throat seemed to stick a little when I swallowed. I called it right away; maybe I’m starting a cold.

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It was late, though, I thought, as I hauled myself up from the couch, found my slippers and put them on so I could shuffle, feet protected, through a list of settling-down-for-the-night chores.

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Snap off lights, lock doors, might as well leave the dishes until morning.

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Sleep came, but it wasn’t enduring. The soreness in my throat was joined by congestion and some low-level aches and pains. It felt better to sit upright, even though my eyelids drooped.

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Sleeping in a precarious position, I suspected, would greet me in the morning as I had been in a minor collision. I shouldn’t read too much into it if it happens.

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Which, of course, it does.

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In the morning, my throat on fire, my stomach gone sideways from an over-abundant self-administration of medicated lozenges, I dragged my achy body out of bed.

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I stare into the mirror over the bathroom sink and weigh my resolve to finally take a sick day.

Which, now that I’m older, isn’t nearly as fun as when I was a kid. My mother is no longer around to test the heat of my forehead and reassure me that some rest and a bowl of soup is exactly what a doctor would have ordered.

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I rake my mind trying to remember the old saw … “feed a cold, starve a fever.”

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Memory serves up answers: If you feel like eating, eat. Sadly, the same logic doesn’t apply to thirst. In case of vomiting, try small sips and ice chips.

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Curled up on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket, enjoying total control of the television’s remote controller.

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Immersing my sneezy self into one episode of some gothic crime series after another until the sun goes down.

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I dream of a piece of dry toast.

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I can see the toaster from my next on the sofa. But I have to muster the will to drag myself the twelve feet distance between us. It’s warm here next to the roaring wood stove.

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I made myself a deal: when the firewood goes from flames to embers, I’ll feed us both.

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Later, as I stand over the stove, feeding dry logs to the fire with one hand while sanding the back of my throat with the toast in the other hand.

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My mother’s advice fills my head: “if the sore throat continues without the appearance of cold symptoms, it could be a strep infection.”

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She didn’t live through the pandemic.

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So, I test for COVID, just so I might stop guessing.

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Negative. Deep sigh.

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Fluids. Rest. Repeat.

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So I was back on the couch, with the TV and a murder mystery, when the returning college student leaves his hibernation to hunt the fridge.

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“You’re not a work …. Are you feeling ok?”

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When a demon’s voice answers instead of his mom’s, he puts two and together.

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“Can I get you something? I can go to the store… get you some soup and crackers and fruit juice  ...”

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“That would be really nice.”

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I’m feeling better already.

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Smol talk

For long periods of the day, our two-person office is silent. It’s not an awkward silence; it’s just out of necessity. Mistakes are easy to make when the task is slightly persnickety.

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Of course, we take breaks from the silence. We discuss work. We ask for a second set of eyes.

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But we don’t leave our lives at the door.

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Sometimes we listen to the radio or talk about the news. There are times when we discuss the weather or the state of the world. We trade advice on movies we think the other would like.  

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I can focus my attention on the gentle clicks of a keyboard.

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The end of the day was near, and employees began to trickle into the office.

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They have been on the road taking care of business.

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This time seems to be the bookend of a workday that has come full circle: The morning is for clocking in, then discussing the work at hand. Figure out who is staying and who is going, to where and with whom. Time is made for any enlightenment that can be shared; the more you know … the easier it will be.

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At the end of the day, the routine continues. A handful of folks gather around the gigantic calendar, asking illuminating questions about the writing on the wall.

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Before they clock out, we make time for pleasantries. Phones from the mil-zinials are held outward and at arm’s length while we of the old guard smile and ask questions about what we see: We make mental notes about the color scheme of a new house; we ask about the new baby milestones; we boop the noses of dogs and laugh at the antics of cats; we scroll through recent vacation photos and; and get a little misty at a beautiful bride and her groom, who, we are shocked looks so different in a formal suit and without a casual hat.

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Sometimes I pretend my close-up vision is crisp wherever the phone stops, usually too close to my face. And other times I lean back to grab some paper off the printer, a ruse that puts me in perfect focus.

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The sight of fresh babies sent us old office biddie’s to our phones, where we waste no time in finding pictures of our babies at roughly the same age.

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I love these moments.

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It feels like another full circle.

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Over the holidays, a couple of our college-age kids pitched in, making the workload a little lighter and squirreling away a little scratch for the upcoming semester.

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They had done some maintenance work and some light construction. They had pushed brooms and helped with lifting and hauling where needed. They proved useful at bracing and steadying when expertly directed. They shared jokes and good-natured jabs, and as reports were informally filed, they all seemed to get along just fine.

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They didn’t even seem to mind at the end of a hard day that their mothers were showing off a few mug shots from their long-gone toddler days. They linger a little longer in the office – their voices become more animated as they argue like first cousins – from a generation once-removed  – asserting which of them is barely recognizable and which seems to have only grown taller.

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“HELLLLLLO,” texts The Boss Dad booms to the group, sending a security camera photo from earlier in the day of the boys being interrupted from their tasks by the sound of his maniacal laugh. “He’s like the Wizard of Oz, just before you realize it’s just some regular dude behind the curtain,” my son claps back.

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Laughter and time clocks click in harmony. And it is quiet again.

Getting out from under

 Every morning, on and off, for nearly a decade, I feel as if I have woken up to a new and increasingly alarming realization. And the world feels foggy, like it’s still asleep.

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Of course, it started when a game-show host declared victory in 2016 and, in short order, began dismantling all kinds of legal and political norms, exposing how depressingly easy it was to transform a public office into a personal entitlement beyond the reach of accountability.

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But it didn’t end there.

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And, as much as I thought during his first term that the “adults in the room” had fled the scene, I had to acknowledge that this time around, and only one year in, there wasn’t any resistance at all - like the incoming outfit had stripped our national infrastructure down to the studs.

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Selling off each little bit, seemingly, piece by piece. With or without our approval, a flimsy nod of the head that carries no real weight or an immeasurable sanction. And everything is just a little bit worse.

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We go about our days tending the things that don’t tend themselves or neglecting the things that are harder to stomach. Such as the specter of war set in motion, not by an act of Congress but by the edict of a tweet. We tune in to hear department heads talk about dissent being labeled as domestic terrorism, while poorly trained, masked police murder citizens with near impunity.

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This can’t be our destination. We can’t land here. This can’t even be our middle ground.

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There is no alternate planet for us, or for them.

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Surely cooler heads and reason will prevail.

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Until then, our only constant is that every week, Mondays follow Sundays the same way Thursdays proceed Fridays.  And so on, and so on, like quicksand.

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We have to be vigilant in reminding ourselves not to let it swallow us up.

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We have to guard our rest, so when we do get out of bed, put on the bravest face and do more than simply hope for the best. We have to take pains to really DO our best.

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Keep calm, as they say, and carry on.

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Maybe we don’t have to do anything new … maybe we just have to pay closer attention to the things we haven’t noticed or hadn’t thought were important.

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Today might just be the day that you meet a friend in the grocery store, they will sing the praises of the cava cava oranges, perhaps, and you will admit that the Cuties are getting old. You will catch up on the good gossip as other shoppers rush around you, the pebbles in the stream.

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Small talk.

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It’s hard to know where we are safe to land.

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It makes me think about the protectionist, vigilante thinking we have come to embody: “See something, say something.” has us all brainwashed.

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But “say no more” isn’t always the same as saying less.

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It certainly seems like a juggling act.

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Eventually, everything settles.

Reclaim your time. Recoup your strength.

Come out from under.

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Yearlings

The New Year always greets me with that  slick handshake I recognize from situation comedies. It starts with a tight grin, an awkward approach, and then an outstretched hand.

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I don’t trust it. Like the moment the glitter and streamers shimmy to the ground, the hand of fate will retract back to stroke the greasy slick of its hair.

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What will it give? Who might it take? An ounce of sweat here, a pound of flesh there.

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Last year may have felt like the worst year, but hoping for better feels dangerous. Like tempting fate with no regard for the repercussions, the same as spilling salt without tossing some over our shoulders. Better to be a celebration celibate than surprised by misfortune.

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“Shhhhhh,” I tell myself. “Don’t add unnecessary weight to desire for frivolity.”

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There will be ample time for that during each day of the next too-fast-paced year.

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Instead, I want to spend the first few weeks of the New Year thanking the old one.

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I may not have stuck to all (or any) of the  resolutions I set, but if I close my eyes and calm my breath, I can admit that the good days might have been “Great,” while the worst days might soon be remembered as minor victories. Time has a way of changing perspectives, with its knack of letting new experiences reshape old memories into different forms.

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In the wee hours of that first morning, I feel like a yearling. Hopeful and energetic. Youthful but not new. Today is not just another day, it’s the next one. Anything can happen.

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So, as this new year ages, I resolve to mature with it and try to hold on to that hope; to realize where there is room for growth, there also needs to be time for rest.

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I don’t need to be different, and neither do you. We just need to allow ourselves the freedom to adjust.

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Maybe we just need to unplug to recharge.

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Give ourselves a chance to appreciate the small things: the sight of birds at our feeders, cats on our laps, the taste of sweet oranges and savory broths.

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Reclaim your time; take a walk and a nap. Reread a book you loved.

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Extend yourself whenever possible. Offer to help with something. Even if it’s holding a door open or picking up the thing that someone accidentally dropped. Taking the shopping cart back to the corral, even if it wasn’t you who abandoned it.

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Imagine the ways the stranger left it there may have needed your help instead of your disdain.

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Say thank you every chance you get.

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Allow the feeling of gratefulness to exorcise other demons. Let past regrets go. Forgive yourself as often as you forgive others.

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Let more slide. You don’t have to read the comments. Every once in a while, stop yourself from saying every word of your piece.

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It seems more important than ever to greet this each day of this year with a glad hand.

Time, share

 It was a last-minute ask.

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My friend needed a few extra hands to finish her holiday confection preparation as Christmas Eve descended. “Your place or mine … I will come to you.”

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I couldn’t say no.

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She arrived with all the supplies from her kitchen: a dozen eggs, a carton of milk, a quart of neutral oil, a sack of flour, a bag of sugar, and all the spices. She even brought measuring utensils and other dishware we would need for an assembly line of tinkering and finishing touches.

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“These are called ‘Buneulos’,” she said slowly and clearly, nodding patiently as I repeated the word several times, emphasizing different syllables with a question-mark lilt in my voice. She gently repeated the word until my brain could settle the sounds into their proper order.

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“That’s it! You’ve got it!”

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She pulled out a snowflake-shaped mold that had been welded to a long, metal rod tipped by a short, wooden dowel. It gave cookie-cutter quaintness with a cattle brand vibe.

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She worked quickly as she described what would happen next: when dipped in the thin batter and immersed in the oil bubbling in the Dutch oven, a delicate fritter would crisp up and release from the ornate family heirloom with just a few well-placed nudges with a butter knife.

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Despite the steps that had to follow one another in precise order, the process was straightforward: measure, mix, dip, fry, dry, and finally, dust with the crystalline magic that is cinnamon sugar.

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For now, she explained, it would be my job to blot the oil and ensure each exquisite snowflake glistened.

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All went as planned until the first fritter stuck to the mold like glue. Then another. And another. Between each interval, we scraped and scrubbed the washed and dried the snowflake before trying again.

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Three more times, the ancestors, it seemed, refused to give up the ghost.

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It was a mystery.

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We wondered aloud whether it was a Goldilocks problem; maybe the oil was too hot? Or maybe it was too cold? I wondered in silence whether it was the curse of my kitchen, a place where, under my watch, water burns to a crisp.

“Should we just let it go?” my friend asked. “It’s late, and I don’t want to tie up your night. This might just be a sign that my bunuelos are just not meant to be this year.”

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I did not want to admit defeat.

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And although I yet to experience what making 100 snowflake fritters would entail once we were finally “cooking with grease,” as our mothers used to say, I wanted to keep trying.

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I also remembered a long-forgotten deep fryer that still lived somewhere in these cabinets.

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“Maybe,” I ventured, “the fryer would keep a more consistent temperature, and that would be the solution.

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A few minutes of futzing  … and sending the returning college freshman to the grocery for a top-off of oil … was all it took to get the assembly line up and running.

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The boy even rolled up his sleeves and offered to help after he handed over the Wesson.

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One batch and then another … my friend marveled as my boy, with just a twist of the wrist, made the snowflake bloom in the oil like a miracle. No prying needed.

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He fried, I dried, and she packed towering stacks into boxes for distribution.

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We talked, and laughed, and I loved each sweet moment.

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“I’m so glad we persevered.”

 

The gift

 “The best gifts for mothers-in-law.”

I typed this into the search engine and waited. In short order, a few bazillion sponsored links cascaded down the screen.

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I was not disappointed. There wasn’t anything that screamed “revenge gift,” which had worried me a bit as I mulled over the wording I had keyed in at the onset, feeling a little remorseful that the qualifier – in-law – still seemed appropriate and necessary.

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I didn’t think my giftee would be disappointed, either. The selection available ran the gamut between tasteful and classic to playful and zany: There were stylish grippy-soled slippers; a plush robe with safe, sedate color options. Of course, I clicked away from all of those to read more about a green plastic pill case that looks as if it had been molded from an actual pea pod. But I came to my senses soon enough.

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After flirting with the idea for a few moments before abandoning the fake “produce” in my “virtual” cart, I move on to explore the endless array of things no one really needs that, sadly, in the moment in which we find ourselves, may be made entirely of A.I.

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Which is why I tend to feel a little adrift as I wade through all the well-meaning gift guides that media and moguls alike churn out at this time of year. Because the best gifts … we all know … require we know a little more about a person than their age, gender, and place in the family hierarchy.

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We need to know and care about who they are and what they mean to us. We might have to pull out an old story or an inside joke. We have to make a connection.

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Every part of me knows this as I peruse the guides, hoping to find an item that will somehow show my investment in the thought, and not just a brightly decorated box I would hand over like collateral.

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That’s when I happened upon a piece in the New York Times that had collected hundreds of stories from readers about their favorite or most memorable gifts. It was a delightful read that gleaned sweet little snippets, telling of prized memories more than it described mere possessions.

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It reminded me of the Swiss Army knife my father gave me for my college graduation. It was the only thing I wanted for Christmas, or maybe it was for my Birthday, when I was seven. I don’t really remember. I just know from the note that came with it that my father never forgot: “Congratulations on your graduation! You are old enough and wise enough for this now.”

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It also reminded me of the year my sister had handed me a triple-digit gift card for a national coffee purveyor I liked, saying, “Here. This is all I’m doing this year.”  That was the year I thought of her, and said a silent “Thanks, Sis,” every time I needed a little caffeinated pick-me-up.

I know it doesn't have to be a grand gesture.

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And it could be that I buy the slippers that look stylish, but know that the real gift will be the laughter as we sit around after our holiday meal and swap stories of our favorite gifts.

Yearning to be free

 My heart sank a little as I read the opinion after opinion heralding news from Australia that a new law, effective immediately, would restrict children and teens from using social media.

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We all seem to agree that “kids today” are depressed, anxious, and failing to do so many things we were somehow able to master - with one hand tied behind our backs - by the time we were only half their age.

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It’s the clothes they wear … the music …  the video games … the movies … the books … the screens … the bullying … the drugs, the sex  … are all addictions we can beat with abstinence.

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And just as it was our impulse decades ago to keep our kids from ever being alone in the big wide world, we will now seek to keep them sheltered from the World Wide Web.

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But as we all wax nostalgic about the lack of freedom to “just be kids,” we should really be focusing more on the “freedom” we have already etched away.

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I don’t know a single person who would want to relive their youth.

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Sure, they’d like to be able to do some of the things they once took for granted … like eating cheeseburgers, or staying up late on purpose, or sitting on the floor without having to think about whether their knees will enable them to get back to standing.

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I don’t know a soul who would ever be happy going back to pay phones or navigating the roadways with a paper map folded into 27 rectangles.

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Who would rather we lost?

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Nostalgia shouldn’t be the foundation for policies that dictate our future. Nostalgia for our youth -  when we had limited experiences with the world and the understanding of a child - is a seductive and effective marketing tool.  It also clouds our judgment.

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It makes us look for enemies when we are faced with a chaotic present, it helps us isolate a problem or points us to an enemy we can vanquish, and offers the hope of regaining a life we never truly experienced.

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My cohorts worried about the threat of nuclear Armageddon and visited the bomb shelter in the school basement once. Our children worried about whether or not a gunman would get through the barricade of chairs their class had piled against the door during one of several random active shooter drills each and every year.

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We had space and freedom to explore and to get into scrapes; they had stranger danger and organized, optimized play. We could be free in our neighborhoods and beyond once we got bikes; they could be free in Minecraft unless we insisted they share their passwords.

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Is it possible that the chipping away at privacy and freedom in an attempt to secure temporary safety gives us nothing? If they can’t move about, or have privacy and secrets, if they don’t make decisions or get the chance to be independent in thought, aren’t we merely adding to the anxiety?

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If we block another channel for independence, are we asking for more deception and despair?

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There are a host of studies by the Educational Database Online that examine how constant monitoring can be detrimental to our teens’ development and mental health. It suggests that a rights-based approach to privacy policy is imperative.

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It’s not that we shouldn’t demand more from progress and those who power that progress, it’s that we shouldn’t accept anything less than the right to control our own message, no matter what our age.

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Parenting has never been easy, nor has growing up.