Mar
22
I give JB a lot of crap, both online and off, and the man’s taken his share of flack over things like, oh, for instance, perceived inequality in household chores or midnight baby-wakenings, wherein “perceived” means “based on reality, motherfucker”.
Let me state for the record, though, that when it comes to taking care of a sick child, my husband is a goddamned king. He’s patient. He’s calm. He’s comforting and never shrieks in alarm when a child—as actually happened last night—vomits directly on his face.
I’m not proud of the fact that I don’t deal with sickness very well. I don’t know what my problem is, but I do know that a puking child sends me into an ineffectual doom-spiral where I enjoy many of the classic panic attack symptoms: pounding heart, trembling hands, and the certainty that Life As We Know It Has Permanently Ended. I rush to the computer and google stupid things (TODDLER VOMITING NO FEVER IS THIS EBOLA?), I gnaw my fingernails down to bloody stubs, I hover over the child boring frantic holes into their skull, hoping for some sign that everything’s okay it’s just a virus take it easy oh my god we are all going to DIE.
So anyway, Dylan’s been quite sick during the last 24 hours, and JB has been a saint. He’s at home with him right now, doing all the unpleasant tasks necessary when caring for a child not yet old enough to provide adequate warning before turbo-ejecting the contents of their stomach. Where I would be sending him a frantic series of text messages begging him to come home and help me keep the last of my sanity from unravelling, JB simply mentioned earlier this morning that he was amused to hear a Yo Gabba Gabba song about how “your mouth on your face can do a LOT”.
“You are such a good guy for taking care of Dylan today,” I wrote.
“Just being a Dad,” he wrote back, nonplussed.
He does it better than anyone I know, really.
Mar
19
After all my wigging out about going back to school, all of a sudden next Tuesday is the final exam and the last class meeting of the quarter. It seems like the weeks have just flown by, and makes me reflect on the truth of what many of you said when I was hemming and hawing over starting this in the first place: the time is going to pass either way.
So here I am a few months later, five credits further down the road than I would have been if I’d decided to wait. Five credits is a very small step, but still.
I suppose I could still flunk the shit out of that last test, but even if I do I’ll have a passing grade. You guys, I have done really well in this class, and as far as therapy goes tuition probably costs more than a beard-stroking talk therapist but whatever, I am crushing those old and icky feelings of school-related failure, one A at a time.
Of course it remains to be seen if my newfound academic excellence can translate to something other than Sociology 101 and a homework load that was pretty much limited to two exams and three “personal reflection” essays. Ahem.
I registered for spring quarter yesterday and I’m on the waiting list for a nutrition class (yay!), a math class (boo!), and if neither of those work out I’ll be hooking up with Intercultural Communication (AKA, The Humanities Credit You Take When the Only Other Evening Class Option is Public Fucking Speaking Which Oh My God No I Would Rather Die in a Fire).
It feels a bit like chipping at some enormous mountain with a teeny tiny chisel, but—say it with me—the time will pass either way. Where do I want to be a couple years from now: standing in front of the same overwhelming hill, or starting to see the shape of what’s underneath?
This feels right, and good, and best of all, I’m enjoying the process. Even the beshitted studying.
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PS: in housekeeping news, I just started a weekly column with The Stir over at CafeMom. I hope you come by and visit!
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