Super slumber Sunday
A frank conversation about losing function when the world is primed for action.
What was that about posting on Sundays? Well, here I am. Late and offering “mea culpa” on the first go.
I would normally agonize over this type of one-ounce worry, but I can’t be too hard on myself. At least that’s what I’m trying to commit to despite my deadline-addicted tendencies attempting to change my inner dialogue’s tone from insistent to compassionate.
Not long ago, that narrative voice guided me through major life milestones at a determined pace. Discover, learn, master, create, climb, publish, enhance, repeat. Long hours, too-short weekends, late nights, red-eye mornings. Crush it, go, just keep going, can’t stop . . . can’t stop.
The voice set the tempo, and baby, I danced.
Now I struggle to get the voice to turn on at all. Forget the things to be done (literally) — the goal is now:
show up every day, be as gentle as possible
An uncomfortable six months with long COVID health problems has been front and center, blurring the details, marring the lines, erasing whole days, and pressing PAUSE enough times that the plotline of my life’s primetime series has become a real snooze-fest. Even the dogs have joined me in my sloth-like state— or maybe I joined them . . .
Prioritizing priorities.
Yesterday, my intended publishing target, came and went with a series of head and body aches that put me in bed by eleven AM. As sunbeams first broke through our windows, I shuffled downstairs to make breakfast for my son and his three friends. Their all-nighter, video game sleepover celebrating our son’s tenth birthday had been a major success. My living room carpet had more ground-up crackers and gold, white, and clear confetti on it than the stadium after yesterday’s sports ball-something-or-another with iconic performances and twenty-million dollars commercials about how nice it must be to whitewash fascism with evangelicalism, et voila, problem solved! But I digress . . .
Eight bloodshot, sugar-crashed eyes looked up at me over steaming breakfast plates of waffles with syrup and homemade whipped cream accompanied by tiny sausage patties which they called “chicken nuggets” between burps, snorts and laughter. I felt an immediate pang of sympathy for their school lunch monitor and smiled at the memories of a hilarious third-grade friend being the sworn enemy to one of the meaner ones from my years in private school. He loved to shoot milk out of his nose and her only purpose in life was to punish him for it.
As a parent, it’s pretty easy to brag about your kids. This is especially the case with our son. He’s a wicked smart, hilarious, gentle giant at 5’2” and freshly ten years old; I can wear his slide sandals to the mailbox and his hands nearly outsize mine. He started reading my childhood collection of Shel Silverstein books to me when I took a sudden turn into dysfunction last fall. He hates reading, but for me, he’ll read twenty pages — not an eyeroll in sight.
Because he and his sisters are growing at record speeds, I refuse to be hard on myself immediately following a hard health day, no matter what my expectations were. This is a process of listening and letting go. Not knowing when I will get better, or the answer to a million other questions, doesn’t help anyone. It especially doesn’t help me best occupy my place in our family of five when I can’t even stand up to myself. The weight of the unknown is just too dang much.
We were told I could expect a turnaround within about six weeks post-infection, but six weeks came and went and most of my problems stayed. That was Labor Day. In the months passed, we’ve had four family birthdays (my own included — are you really that age if you don’t remember your birthday?) all end-of-year major holidays, and returned countless “RSVP: No” responses. The crowds and loud music, conversations, lights, . . . it’s all too much for me now. Sometimes, upon waking, my internal clock is hard wired to October. Several, confused, winter morning blinks and checking my phone screen is always a harsh moment on my senses.
Truth be told, I feel a sharp pang of fear when my recall doesn’t deliver a highlight reel from the last few days. And then I feel terribly sad for our familial matriarchs who lost their memories and were stuck in a loop from thirty years ago, re-learning that their loved ones had passed on or moved away. My loop of recall can feel painfully small; but, as desperate as I am to get out of it, I don’t want to distance myself from harboring empathy for anyone suffering with any kind of memory loss.
Today is worth remembering. Today is worth gentleness.
This is why, as I scrub a stack of breakfast dishes, vacuum the confetti mess, spend a small fortune on weekly groceries, adopt a “just roll with it/let’s have fun” attitude, answer silly questions, and make sure the pet bearded dragon, Draco, doesn’t get crushed in little boy ruckus . . . I am packing in these memories like treasures.
I know it’s only a matter of time before our youngest child is looking down at me— seeing a whole new angle of my face for the rest of his life. And I know I will miss these moments, but really missing them could be a very different beast to tame if I keep struggling to function throughout difficult days, or if I can’t recall yesterday, or the day before, or the day before . . .
So . . I refuse to be mean to myself when I am trying my best to just survive and be present when it matters most: the big moments, the serious talks through pre-teen goalposts, the good, the bad, the endearing.
I would only be supportive and kind to someone struggling to reclaim themselves in a quicksand engulfing their health, career/small business, and hobbies.
If I were my friend and going all “woe is me and my sh*t-not-together-ness” I wouldn’t hesitate to pull out a poster labeled:
EXHIBIT A: You participated in your kids’ birthday and that matters most, period.
There might also be flashcards with inspiring quotes, some curse words neatly placed to deliver the message, etc.
And let’s be real, as a Virgo, the flashcards would be color coded and in alphabetical order. As a mom and baker of all kinds of goodies, there would also be snacks.
The turning point.
I’m happy to admit that I feel much better today. After a six-hour nap (does that still qualify as a nap??) I can write and talk and walk around without slamming my poor toes into every corner in the house.
Today I had the clarity to draw on moments I intended to keep. Though the clarity may not won’t stick around, I recorded what I could for my mental archives.
I’m thankful that I had the time today to write out what happened this weekend.
I’m delighted to have the first ice-breaking post done after that sudden Sunday slumber took me down for the count.
I’ve got the first draft of Thursday’s post ready to go and I’m really excited to get into the nitty gritty bits of our souls as we discover our likeness in poetry and prose.
Next Sunday we’ll be covering some of my favorite female Black poets and their work, plus my useless opinion about a suspected reincarnation, and of course, a timeless love letter.
In honor of Black History Month, if you have any Poets, Authors, or Artists to recommend for our shared learning, please drop them in the comments below!
Until then, I highly recommend:
The Poetry Foundation’s collection,
purchasing and reading one of these incredible biographies,
or this lovely coffee table book.
If you’re serious about supporting local-to-me artists, you’ll need to get this excellent collection of poems and prose by Central Texas slam Poet extraordinaire, Christopher Michael, and do not deny yourself the opportunity to buy this book by my Poet friend, Joe Brundidge, whose eloquent, live-mic voice and turn-of-phrase techniques will ring in your ears for days.
What do we do now?
Be gentle with yourself, fellow human. It doesn’t matter if you are in peak health or declining in some way. You don’t deserve invisible hardness poking at your happiness.
Stretch what you know and what you don’t know, but don’t compare the two.
Listen to your body when it says “enough” and take the nap you deserve. On the couch, mouth open, tv on, yes! CARPE NAP.
Got a mantra you tell yourself when the going is tough? Please share. You never know who could us it, too. (It’s me, Hi, I could use it)
Take care, y’all. Y’all means all, so . . . that means YOU.
gentle gentle gentle 💖
Aho. A hefty and sprawling read.
By request:
https://youtu.be/Fh5WkNeajUk