Off My Head

Have you ever had a flu where you felt like you'd been lobotomized? Not only was I narcoleptic and sore and stuffed up, but my head was like a great big pre-global warming glacier, and no chunks were falling into the sea. For two weeks I walked around with my great big ol' block head, with a great roaring in my ears. Since I couldn't breathe through my nose or my mouth, I spent several nights in a chair, which as restful experiences go, is decidedly not.

My mother thinks I've been sick an absurd amount since becoming a mom, and I don't disagree. But a lot of people have told me that the first few years of parenthood are fraught with cooties. Do any of you find that to be true? I used to get sick once a year, if that. Now I'm sick every couple months.

It's been hard coming back to the blog, because when I try thinking of things the way I used to in March, it's like I've had some major head trauma because I can't remember anything. It makes me feel very helpless.

This week, David has been away at NAB (National Association of Broadcasters) in Vegas, and for the first time, Jarrah is taking it incredibly hard that he's gone. The first night, we had dinner at a friend's house, and at a certain point she just started blubbering "I'm tired! I want my daddy!" Over the last few days, she has broken down several times without warning, calling out for him. Usually, she is incredibly adaptable, and can't get enough of new people and situations. But suddenly, she's fragile, craving the familiar. It's like she got knocked off balance and became some other child.

It's not that I'm not sympathetic, but having been through a vulnerable time myself, I'm having a curious reaction at these moments: it takes all my strength not to get down on the floor and wail for David to come home, too. I'm so much better this week--less tired, much less deaf--but somehow it was just too soon to be alone in the big bed. Adding an inconsolable 3-year-old to the mix pushes me over the edge. And yet I recognize that my job as a mommy is to stay focused on her needs in this situation, so I'm practically biting my fist and running into the other room to avoid letting her see my own anguish.

We've tried to stay busy and productive. We've lined up lots of play dates and dinners, I've managed to get her to school on time, do the grocery shopping and the laundry, keep the house in some sort of order. On the surface, we probably look okay. But at night we lie there across the hall from each other, and I can tell--because I'm not either--that she's not sleeping well. It kind of weirds me out, because I've spent most of my adult life living alone, and it's still new to be needed and need someone else quite so much, especially at the same time.