Bugs and Cowardice

It came out of nowhere. One minute, I’m happily going through my hectic week, feeling good about sticking to my new-found determination to work out and generally being a productive member of my household and society when, AAA-Chooo!!! There it was. A bug so virulent that I woke up with a 38.5 degree fever, burning eyeballs that won’t stop crying; dry, muscle reacquainting cough and a runny nose that must have seen Kleenex tissue sales ramp up in a weekend. And I bravely soldiered on, mind you. I finished the rough draft of my gallery paper through a fever-induced haze. I sat down for every meal. I swallowed an impressive array of cough and cold medicine, over-the-counter, homeopathic, herbal and everything in between. And then I gave the bug to my kids.

See, this is what I’m bemoaning about. After the very real ache of missing out on hugs and kisses given to and received from my offspring, I am feeling very sore about passing on this, well, flu, or whatever it is. What was the point of shooing them away from my room? Or of wiping the keyboard and mousepad with antiseptic? Or of washing my hands after every sneeze? My poor babies. Because that’s what they are when they’re sick. My babies. In my eyes, I see the babies that they were and I revisit each and every memory of their growth. I tell myself that this episode is far less worrying than the time we had to rush each kid to the hospital, over bad falls, convulsions brought on by fever, allergies, jaundice… I put my faith in God and medicine. Surely, these are good kids and the Lord will hear my simple prayer.

And yet, as I stay up all night to put cold compress over a seven-year old’s feverish forehead, I lose all my confidence and start to let my mind wander. Why is he not responding to the medicine like his big brother? When I see our older son bravely state that he thinks he can manage to go to school and then promptly collapse from a dizzy spell, I ask what did I miss? I go crazy over the type of soup they should eat, if they are drinking enough fluids, or if it’s time to see the doctor. What if it’s worse than I think? And so on and so forth; one grim possibility compounded by another.

“Children make cowards of us all,” a wise old friend paraphrased Hamlet to me. I was once a fearless, perhaps even impetuous youth. Nothing fazed me for I knew early on that life is hard, it is tragic, and it is not for the faint-hearted or for the lazy. I would dare to do anything I believe in. I used to say smugly, “I live my life at 200 miles per hour” with all the heartache, drama and excitement that came with that speed. But that has all changed when my children came into the picture. All of a sudden, I am afraid. Of so many things – the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat… are they clean enough or will they make my children sick? Afraid of speed, the one thing I loved the most about anything and everything. I never liked waiting, and all of a sudden, I worry that cars are going too fast, that the lessons and activities in the classroom are just a blur, that everything in media sets up ADHD, and that the kids are growing up too fast. I worry about wars. I worry about the economy collapsing. I worry about real estate. I even worry about my getting sick. Again. Who will take care of my kids?

I just set up a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. It can’t hurt. They are better, or so they say. The fever is slight. The TV is on. The short school week almost over, and the Chinese New Year long weekend is waiting for us to be back on our feet so we can face everything head on once again. A barbecue and a swim have been set up. A visit to the museum. Plans for play dates (the term which the kids no longer use) and grown up only dinners. House cleaning (hah!). Emails to be checked. Photos to be scanned and uploaded. School project to be worked on. We can’t afford to be sick. I can’t make myself sick with worry.

So I will put on my brave face and smile as I check up on the two boys. I will use my chatter about vitamins and sleep and rest to hide my fear. I will insist on them eating the chicken vegetable soup as I check their temperature. And I will say we're going to see the doctor tomorrow with nonchalance. After all, it's just a little bug (I hope).

1.1.11

It's a glorious winter's morning on the first day of the new year and I find myself in my unsexy but comfy flannel pajamas, happily slouched in the worn leather armchair in our bedroom, the smell of the morning coffee and fresh laundry lingering in the air. The boys have been out for over an hour now, skiing Blackcomb on what would be hopefully a mountain deprived of hung-over skiers and boarders. I made them a hearty breakfast of bird's nest with parmesan cheese and ham, youghurt and juice - my contribution to their excited quest to ski as often as they could whilst we spend the holidays in Whistler.

I have not found the courage to take skiing lessons. Fear of so many things keep me rooted to our warm, safe, chore-filled house. Instead of celebrating the new year on the slopes with my boys, I have several loads of laundry to do, beds to make, dishes to wash and put away, meals to plan and shop for, toys to be tidied up, and yes, a couple of social sites to be updated. I've got my routine in Whistler all figured out sans the resentment of being the unpaid housekeeper on what is supposed to be a three week vacation trip over Christmas. It's a new place to be in for me, this whole, loving service to the family ON A DAILY BASIS. I've done this countless times before, and I wouldn't say I'm ecstatic about this role, but I am strangely ok with it. I did have one outburst at the beginning of the trip - a necessary impassioned lecture of how I am NOT to be ignored whilst issuing my mommy commands to put dirty clothes in the hamper or putting plates away in the kitchen. That set the tone, and even though there are more misses than hits, the boys don't just sit around expecting to be waited on hand and foot.

I let thoughts of relocating our family to Canada intrude into my reality, wondering if this very "ordinariness" of living it out in our modest three-bedroom townhouse is giving me a taste of what it would be like to live in this part of the world. This trip is different, I think, because it's the first time I am not looking at it as a vacation/holiday per se. It is just IS. I thought we have been behaving as we would've had we been home, except that instead of school and work, there's the mad rush to get to the ski lifts in the mornings. And I am left to my own devices again. It is strangely freeing this time around. I know I have a choice.

I was looking forward to a lot of free time for introspection. My idea of not skiing involved a lot of reading on my new Kindle, photographing with my new macro lens out in the woods, catching up on my favorite tv shows, and dishing out lovely bowls of steaming stews to warm us up at the end of the day. None of these things have happened yet. The reality is that it is a challenge to set up our rental place to make it more OUR HOME than a serviced apartment, and my sensibilities won't allow me to let the place go to seed while we're here. I reluctantly rediscovered the simple joy (yes!) of keeping house, OUR house; the creative ways of cooking with a very limited pantry and very expansive tastes, the subtle challenge of relaxation when you're very aware of "mess" that could build up unchecked... I guess what would've been resentment for being the housekeeper by default was overcome with the satisfaction of ownership, and the warmth from seeing my family tired but exhilarated from days of conquering themselves on the snow-covered mountains.

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Sigh... It is now three days later and I am determined to put up this post. Life happens as a mother blogs. The boys arrived and I had to give up the laptop for my husband's use - a marathon session on Bloomberg. The kids needed their snacks, dinner had to be prepared, laundry had to folded, exciting stories to be heard. The next couple of days saw us saying goodbye to visiting friends and taking down our beautiful Christmas tree, followed by a wrestling session between the vacuum cleaner and countless pine needles stubbornly clinging to the carpet. Our ornaments were carefully wrapped and put away for the year, and Santa's presents were packed for the long trip ahead. Wishes to stop renting out our place were voiced, together with the moans accompanying clean up day.

I eye the not-so-little children with a mix of nostalgia and proud amazement, marvel at how they display their personalities with a newfound confidence, slightly annoyed at this new tone of sassiness. I stifle a smile when Dylan said he wasn't ready to give up his Monobloks and toy truck just yet; there is a little bit left of my baby in that loud, happy, assertive, pre-pubescent boy. I barely keep my surprise when Jake puts his arms around me to give me a quick hug at the end the day. I relish our cuddling time on the couch that almost always end up in a tickling/dogpile session. The couch, nay, the house, can barely contain our growing kids. We think perhaps it's time to start looking for a bigger place.

So in the end, the familiar routine, the rhythm of our family togetherness, the cadence of my kid's growth, these things took the angst out of holiday travel and released me to enjoy the simplier things in winter time living in Whistler, really our second home. I can't think of where else we'd like to spend our Christmas in the future. I guess we better start looking for a bigger home here :)