Time marches on.
The year is 2012. I'm sitting on the edge of an unmade bed. Left foot slides obediently into the leg of my slacks. So far, so good. Right foot comes next, or it would if we were following the natural order of things, but "natural order" means nothing around this house anymore. Right foot refuses to do its part.
Lifting numb toes with a plastic coat hanger, I gently encourage my foot to enter the proper leg opening. Four minutes later I'm able to pull an elastic band up around my waist, and my slacks are on. The hardest part of morning is behind me.
Time stands still.
Suddenly, with the magic of memory, the year is 1972 and I'm entering ten-year-old Carmen's bedroom.
"Wake up, Carmen. Time for school."
She squirms away from my gentle shakes, "Mama, will you check my temperature?"
"Are you sick?"
"I might be, Mama. I'm almost sure I am. Check my temperature. Please, please check my temperature!"
Only if a child has fever will I allow him or her to miss school, so temperature is a way-over-used morning word at our house. Carmen loves school, but why, oh why, does it have to start so early in the day? What is the big rush, she always wants to know. "Please, Mama, check my temperature," Sleepy begging continues as she clings to her covers.
"Maybe. In a minute," I say, as I feel beneath the warm blankets and pull out first one foot and then another, stuffing them into socks, then threading stockinged feet through blue jean legs and right on into her shoes before pulling this reluctant daughter of mine into a standing position. My well experienced hands pull jeans up, release denim, grab flannel and pull the nightgown up across her sleepy face. Under shirt is topped with a favorite tee. Hair is brushed neatly into a pony tail. Carmen is still reaching back for her pillow.
I supervise the brushing of teeth, round up books, give out lunch money and follow children down the front walk encouraging Carmen to take just one more bite of toast and one more sip of orange juice. Her sisters bounce up the steps of the bus. Carmen sleepwalks.
Time marches on.
Phillip is watching the Today show. I stop beside the hospital bed and search his face for silent reassurance that he rested well through the night and is now ready to face a new day.
The year is 2012. I'm sitting on the edge of an unmade bed. Left foot slides obediently into the leg of my slacks. So far, so good. Right foot comes next, or it would if we were following the natural order of things, but "natural order" means nothing around this house anymore. Right foot refuses to do its part.
Lifting numb toes with a plastic coat hanger, I gently encourage my foot to enter the proper leg opening. Four minutes later I'm able to pull an elastic band up around my waist, and my slacks are on. The hardest part of morning is behind me.
Time stands still.
Suddenly, with the magic of memory, the year is 1972 and I'm entering ten-year-old Carmen's bedroom.
"Wake up, Carmen. Time for school."
She squirms away from my gentle shakes, "Mama, will you check my temperature?"
"Are you sick?"
"I might be, Mama. I'm almost sure I am. Check my temperature. Please, please check my temperature!"
Only if a child has fever will I allow him or her to miss school, so temperature is a way-over-used morning word at our house. Carmen loves school, but why, oh why, does it have to start so early in the day? What is the big rush, she always wants to know. "Please, Mama, check my temperature," Sleepy begging continues as she clings to her covers.
"Maybe. In a minute," I say, as I feel beneath the warm blankets and pull out first one foot and then another, stuffing them into socks, then threading stockinged feet through blue jean legs and right on into her shoes before pulling this reluctant daughter of mine into a standing position. My well experienced hands pull jeans up, release denim, grab flannel and pull the nightgown up across her sleepy face. Under shirt is topped with a favorite tee. Hair is brushed neatly into a pony tail. Carmen is still reaching back for her pillow.
I supervise the brushing of teeth, round up books, give out lunch money and follow children down the front walk encouraging Carmen to take just one more bite of toast and one more sip of orange juice. Her sisters bounce up the steps of the bus. Carmen sleepwalks.
Time marches on.
Phillip is watching the Today show. I stop beside the hospital bed and search his face for silent reassurance that he rested well through the night and is now ready to face a new day.
I bend forward and lay my head against his chest. He smells of soap and baby lotion. I bought a new supply of soft white tee shirts last week, and cut each one straight up the back from bottom hem to neck band before washing, drying, folding and stacking them on a shelf beside his bed. These tee shirts are his complete wardrobe. It's been a long time, now, since Phillip has worn real clothes.
His one good arm closes around me as he nuzzles the top of my head. I listen to the reassuring beat of his heart and send up my usual request, "Please, God, let our luck keep holding."
Email MelindaGerner@yahoo.com
