Tuesday

Last night was thoroughly unexpected. The day began with a lovely night's sleep and a strong practice, with hopes to begin second series the next day. The day progressed steadily with progress on my portfolio. The day felt gentle all around.

But at day's end, when I went to pick up my daughter from school, I took a very hard fall while running across the street. I think I must have tripped...my body went flying toward the newspaper machines. I saw it all kind of in slow motion, willing it not to happen. Foot smashed into sidewalk, pants torn, the force of my fall took out the newspaper machine and the onlookers gasped. The gasping makes it worse, doesn't it? Seeing your mother's shocked face when you wipe out somehow makes it hurt even more. I kept thinking, I have to start second series tomorrow. I have to! My dear sweet husband came to my rescue with frozen broccoli...he practically ran the 8 blocks to where I was. Together we went to pick up our daughter and I limped around the house until bedtime, hoping that the bruises would be better by the morning.

But I was not the only patient last night. My daughter awoke at 11pm with terrible sickness...she vomited her heart out for hours, and then more today. A virus. Sweet little peanut. This is the amazing part of it all, of course...my pain took the way, way back seat as I rocked her and snuggled her, helped her sit up while she vomited and softly rubbed her face to help her back to sleep. She wasn't a baby last night; she was a little girl with long legs and arms, lanky and soft in just her diaper, with a wise awareness that her sickness was awful, with a genuine frustration. And yet, between throw-ups, she smiled at her parents as if she were just glad that we were all together in the big bed. And then, when her sickness had subsided for the night — just for then — she made it clear that being in her own bed would be better. Sweet, sweet little pickle. We all slept a little later this morning, and our dear daughter stayed home today with her dad.

She will stay home tomorrow, too. It fills my heart with bliss to know that I will be there tomorrow to snuggle and soothe her. It is an honor to be her parent.

I know that the day can turn. I think we all know that it can. And it can turn very hard, painfully. On those days when it turns unexpectedly, there is something to be gained from gently riding that unexpectedness. In the moment last night I found a split second to see what she saw in the big bed, and I felt lucky to be there, too. Even with the bruises and the throwing up, the tears and the awe that things happen. I don't know how it has all somehow turned into this — gratitude, clarity. Her perspective is a gift.