Being sick is not fun but then I'm preaching to the choir aren't I? No one enjoys coughing, hacking, stuffed noses, restlessness, gloopy eyes and that general feeling of "kill me know and let's have done with it."
Today, while I was sprawled upon my bed, my nose dripping, wadded tissues surrounding me like minnows in the sea, my bedside table filled with nose spray, rolls of toilet paper, over the counter medications, sweating and then freezing, I prayed to anyone who would listen to please, pretty please with a cherry on top, to put me out of my misery. I've lived a good life. If it's my time, it's my time.
I dozed off and on the whole day, my mind filled with those dreams that make you feel as if you're running under water. At one point, I was once again a small girl in my all pink room - it was a 60's thing, trust me. I hate pink but I had pink walls, a pink shag rug, white princess furniture with pink bedding and little pink slippers. Let's just say, though my mother worked, sexual equality had not quite come to my home town. I even had the little table with tea set and chair and a chrissy grows hair doll.
Which I still have, somewhere, up in my attic, where a mouse has taken residence, and makes noise at all hours, night or day, and forces Beau to sit in the office, his little head tilted back barking as if he sees the head of Moses. I find this strange only because there are 5 guinea pigs, in the office, right in front of him, making all kinds of movement, squeaking and squealing. Does he bark at them? Thank god no but barking at the ceiling is beginning to be just a wee bit annoying. Emma's gone up into the attic and has found droppings and a trail running through the insulated portion of the attic but can't see the mouse. Maybe it is the head of Moses, playing us for all he's worth. You know.., I think I'll find a big picture of Moses's face and pin it on the ceiling and see what Beau does. He's a fat little dog with middle child syndrome so he's pretty fun to fuck with.
That story was irrelevant wasn't it?? Disregard it please, it has nothing to do with my original thought.
In my dream, I was curled up in my bed, cozy but miserable. My mom, the ever present reminder of safety and security entered, bringing some warm cider and pudding, my woobie and butterscotch drops. In case you're wondering, a woobie is a piece of ragged blanket that you have possessed for as long as you can remember. You take it with you everywhere. It has that special smell, that special feel - chocolate M&Ms melting in your mouth, tendrils of hair being gently tucked behind your ear and the smell of chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. In reality, it's dirty, ragged, falling apart and your mom has to keep hemming the edges as it grows smaller and smaller with more use. You take it in your hands and rub it gently back and forth across your cheek. All is right with the world. If you're anything like my mom was, you rub the blanket on your child's back while singing Come All You Playmates. Every child, every single one, deserves a woobie.
Yes, all my kids had woobies. We've left them at hotels and had to have them mailed home to us. They accompanied us to stores, restaurants, churches. Anyplace Emma or Bonnie could be the woobie followed. I still have all three woobies, even Evans. Put away in their hope chest for another generation of babies. Could there be anything better in life? A mommy, a woobie, warm vanilla pudding with butterscotch drops and maybe just a smidgen of rum to make you sleep.
My mom was terrific when I was little. Did I do this for my kids? Hell no, are you kidding? I was around them 24 hours a day. If they were sick, that meant I didn't have to deal with them. I skipped all the sweet shit and went for the Benadryl, Barney, and a touch of rum. No one ever said I was nurturing. In fact, I was pretty rough on that poor Chrissie doll. I"m surprised she survived.
But for your pleasure of childhood memories:
COME ALL YOU PLAYMATES
Come all you playmates, come out and play with me,
And bring your dollies three; climb up my apple tree,
Shout down my rain barrel, slide down my cellar door,
And we'll be jolly friends, forever more.
Oh jolly playmate, I cannot play with you.
My dolly has the flu; boo hoo, boo hoo, hoo, hoo.
Ain't got no rain barrel, ain't got no cellar door,
But we'll be jolly friends, forever more.
