I don't know when it started exactly - maybe four months ago? Maybe six? Just like that, Bean would present herself ankleside whenever she encountered the smallest owie, pointing to the hurt part, demanding it be kissed. In those months I've kissed countless toes and fingers and elbows and knees and noses and foreheads and ears and even one time when she requested that I kiss her Huggie-diapered bum.
It's a fantastic formula, really: she gets hurt, I kiss the hurt, and then she moseys on her merry way, happy happy happy.
I've wished more times than I can count for that same magic formula for our adult owies: the hurt feelings, the miscommunications, the worries, the mis-steps and the mistakes. The pains we feel right here, deep down inside. I'd like to ask for a magic kiss to make it better.
This weekend had me feeling bruised and blue, my body and soul aching for a light of some kind. Now I should say that this post should be about fathers, the way they have blessed my life with their light, with their goodness, with their guidance. My dad Winston and his innate and wonderful Winston-ness; my late father-in-law Dan--- his sweet smile, his desire for our happiness above all things; my father Buddy, the lengths he has gone to know me and my family - the gift he has given us of his presence in our lives. And Chip, my dearest dearest Chip. What to say about him except this: a weekend when he should have been the one receiving the pampering, instead it was him serving me --- being my actual arms and hands. It was him cleaning out the cat box and making lunch for Bean. Him emptying the dishes and loading the dishwasher and cleaning up the toys in the living room exactly forty-two frillion times. It was Chip who bathed Bean and did all the laundry and made dinner. He made most of his own Father's Day dinner (I did the jello and the cupcakes). And at the end of the day it was Chip asking if I was doing okay, praying for my well being and a quick recovery.
Here's what happened: at my first physical therapy appointment on Friday I received the following orders:
I was told I could fold washcloths but not much else when it comes to laundry.
I was told I could walk but not run.
I was told I could stand but not sit.
I was told that I needed to be very, very, very careful.
And then the dude told me that things were going to be just fine. As long as I followed his rules.
I went home utterly depressed and told Chip the good news. (HAPPY FATHER'S DAY DUDE! I AM UTTERLY USELESS, COME HELP ME GET MY SHOES OFF WILL YOU?)
Maybe not exactly.
But it was close. I have been declared a sad and witless lump of something that once resembled Whimsy.
But thanks to Chip: down but not out. This dumb thing with my neck (it turns out, a pinched nerve and some extreme muscle spasms), I have no idea how long it's going to be like this. I have a wild hope that if I adhere to these ridiculous and totally impossible guidelines (I am a MOTHER of a TWO-YEAR-OLD with a husband WHO TRAVELS FOR A LIVING) for, like, the next week or two, that I will magically get better and be able to get back to living my life in a reasonable manner.
I have been cranky about this turn of events. Keep your fingers crossed for me. I am already breaking the rules by laptopping it for y'all. (However I can safely report that I am flat on my back, offering the least possible resistance to my neck that I can.)
So we return to Chip, to fathers. To what they do. They do the work. They don't complain. They pick up the toys for the frillionth time and they make the chicken nuggets and they do the laundry while their wives look on offering ridiculous and pointless suggestions (don't forget that sock!). They are wonderful gifts in our lives. Mine certainly is. I should know.
And he also offers me magic kisses that make it all better. A pretty amazing deal, if I say so myself.