A Year ... and the Next Day

OK. As always, time has marched on. It is now the "tomorrow," after getting through the day yesterday. It works every time. It's a new day, a new year, Epiphany -- and while I still cannot bring myself to dream, to think ahead, to plan for much of anything, I do have this new day before me. It's a strange feeling, being fearful of dreaming, afraid to look ahead. It's an unnatural feeling; it's not how we were created. And yet ... once again words fail. But I can handle today. It's OK to jump in. Today.

Don and Aidan left for church this morning, leaving me behind with a still-sick little girl. We had a terribly rough night, waking to Grace's frantic cries at 3:00 a.m. As soon as I lifted her out of her crib, I felt as if I was holding a fireball. Her little body was shaking from fever, her little arms clung to my neck. I took her temperature with a none-too-accurate ear thermometer, taking the average of four different readings, ranging from 104 - 105 degrees. Don't panic, I told myself, having never seen a fever that high, instantly recalling stories of similar episodes with my older brother when he was a young child, resulting in convulsions and trips to the emergency room. Don't panic.

Don held her and settled into the big chair in the living room while I stumbled around dosing out Tylenol, filling a water bottle with cold water, soaking a cloth in cold water and laying it on her boiling head, forehead, neck. Meanwhile, Big Brother lay sobbing in his bed -- "I'm all alone! Grace, where are you? Don't leave me!" Soon after he joined his sister on Daddy's lap, and we four sat huddled together for a while, waiting for the medicine to kick in and the cold cloths to bring the fever down. It dropped to 102, she started dozing off, and we felt comfortable with putting her back to bed.

Of course, I didn't sleep. Chatty Cathy had decided to throw yet another raucous party, still going strong at that dark ridiculous hour. Little did I know that my parents were will awake upstairs, having been unable to sleep at all, their upstairs home paralleling the site of the obnoxious gathering. I didn't want to sleep right away anyway, wanting to let more time elapse when I would check on Grace once more, making sure that she was OK. At 4:00 p.m. I got up, took her temperature again, saw that it remained steady at 102, and finally I went back to bed.

Thankfully the kids broke their usual routine and slept in until almost 8:30 a.m. -- a miracle, truly. Still in my PJ's, I put on my coat and took Jack outside for his morning constitution, running into my neighbor Jason and his dog with the same objective in mind. Jason looked horrible and rightly so -- he lives downstairs from our party-loving neighbor.

"Did you get any sleep?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Barely," he said. "That was unbelievable."

We chatted a few minutes about the ridiculous state of affairs, how it must be mandated that one needs to be considerate of neighbors when living in this kind of tightly-packed neighborhood. It's common sense; it's goodwill; it's considerate and human. I expressed my concern, not only with the lack of sleep, but for the blanket of nasty cigarette butts on our lawn, how Grace goes around picking them up. It's vile. He promised to talk to Chatty Cathy's roommate, the daughter of the landlord, who -- interestingly -- is never around when these parties are hosted. Meanwhile his eyes kept roving to the second-floor porch.

"Do you see that wine bottle up there?" he asked.
Sure enough -- there perched precariously on the ledge was a jumper. And directly below, parked in the driveway, was the beautiful white, new, shiny car belonging to Jason's wife.
"One good wind and that bottle will land on the car," he said nervously. "I can't believe this."

I went back indoors and suddenly had an urge to listen to music ... on Don's kickin' stereo system. I had an urge to open the windows, let in the cold fresh air. I had an urge to put on a CD of glorious English church music, fitting for this Sunday morn. I had an urge to turn the dial up as high as it would go. Poetic justice, sleepy revenge.

I didn't. I got my coffee instead. Now I'm about to have a picnic on the living room floor with my sick yet happy little girl. She has her blanket smoothed out, her little hand-basket filled with plastic fruits and vegetables. Yes, it's a new day. The events of the past year have happened and we cannot erase that. How I long for the ability to forget. But today is January 6, the day after. I remember exactly what we were doing on this day last year. I don't want to remember a single minute of it. Ever again.

But I am far from that today -- or at least I am trying to be.
I'm going on a picnic with my daughter.