It’s the little things.

So Friday my family went to Italy. The whole Italy trip is a complicated and dangerous subject, and I won’t get into it! You can’t make me! The bottom line is they all went and I did not. Which I thought I was totally over because after all I had six months to get used to the idea; they were going on my birthday (well, okay, two days before) and I was a little sad about that, but it’s not like I usually see my family members on my birthday anyway, so whatever. When they originally made these plans I hadn’t known we were going to move, so feeling set apart from them in our New New Jersey-ness didn’t help my feelings about the trip, and on my birthday I found that I was perhaps more upset about it than I had anticipated (read: wept until I thought I might throw up). And yes, I know, we moved two hours away, it’s not like we live in Alaska, OMG GET OVER YOURSELF, but wow, I felt sorry for myself that day.

And that night! I started losing my hearing! And by Monday morning my right ear was throbbing and shooting pains were radiating into my brain and also! Peeing felt like I was being stabbed in the pelvic region, and we all know what that means, don’t we, girls? So I call my nice New Jersey doctor, who calls in antibiotic drops for my poor ear and antibiotics for my poor bladder and I stagger around yesterday feeling like a steaming pile of dung, but as I pointed out to my husband, at least I can’t hear my screams when I’m trying to pee!

I woke up today fully expecting to 1) feel better and 2) there’s no #2, but in fact my bladder feels worse, and I went to see my doctor! And he says! That! I need another antibiotic for my ear because I have a more serious infection than he previously thought, and that it seems my bladder infection might be resistant to these antibiotics, and I really should see a female urologist as I get bladder infections if I look at a cup of coffee or if I even say the word “tampon,” and I’m sitting on the examining table hearkening back in my mind to my bladder surgery when I was ten, and please oh pleeease don’t make me do that again, and I want my mommy! But I don’t tell the doctor that! Because I think he would have climbed on a plane to go get her!

But then I was waiting in the waiting room (where you wait) for the doctor to provide me with yet another passel of prescriptions (does my local pharmacist believe that I have the clap? Oh, yes he does) and while I’m waiting, the man sitting next to me is talking on his cell phone about his medical problem. And he says, “I’m calling about my swollen bone.”

And I started to laugh. And I couldn’t stop. I’m hiding behind More magazine (because I’m not over 40 yet, but it’s only a THREE YEARS AWAY) and he keeps saying it. “I’m just not getting relief with this swollen bone. This swollen bone is really a distraction for me. I’d really appreciate it if you could get your hands on my swollen bone.”

He didn’t really say that last part, but my god—thank you, sir. I’m sure your condition is painful, but it brought me joy.

Burning up.

Last night we were packing and I realized my eyeballs were hot. “My eyeballs are hot,” I told my husband, because I like to update him periodically on how I’m doing.

“Huh,” he said. Or “Hrm.”

I continued to pack, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was thinking about my eyes. Also my body, which had begun to ache. “I’m all achy,” I said, to no one. Scott had left the room. He was on the phone with his parents.

I got out the thermometer and stuck it in my ear. It’s one of those. You jab it in there for two milliseconds and somehow it knows your internal body temperature. It’s magic. Actually it’s not because it’s usually wrong, but it’s wrong in that it’s lower than other thermometers, so I get to add “OR MORE” to the end of the number. I use capital letters because I like a little drama.

My temperature read 99.5. “OR MORE,” I reminded myself. I held the thermometer up to Scott, who was talking to his dad about cars, or home insurance, or high-efficiency boilers. Those are the three topics they discuss instead of their feelings. Men!

After he got off the phone he felt my forehead. “You don’t feel hot,” he said.

“But I am,” I said. Who is he going to believe, his overheated palm or Science? “Don’t forget about the hot eyeballs,” I said.

“Poor sweetie,” he said. I didn't think his heart was in it. I sat on the couch while he packed, and I shivered.

Eventually I realized I was clearly too sick to pack one more box, and I went to bed. “If I don’t wake up in the morning,” I told my husband, “You have to marry again. Henry needs a mother.” Scott whimpered. “I’m sorry, I think I’m delirious,” I told him, and I shuffled to bed.

My mother-in-law watches her beloved grandchild (Henry) on Mondays, so as I was drifting off to sleep I thought, okay, if I’m sick tomorrow, it’s not so bad. I can lie in bed all day and sweat out the toxins or whatever you do with one of these fevers (I don’t get a lot of fevers, you see, so this is sort of novel for me) and then by Tuesday I’ll be okay. I had better be okay. I can’t be sick for more than one day, I told myself. Did you hear me, body?

I woke up this morning and I felt fine. Until I stood up. I took my temperature. 100.2.

I was beginning to lose patience with this sickness. First of all, this wasn’t high enough for me to feel justified in lying in bed all day. (Even if my actual temperature could be MORE. I mean, how much more? I could only imagine.) Secondly, I had no other symptoms. Who gets a dinky little temperature and nothing else? Children, that’s who. Babies. I have a baby sickness.

My mother-in-law arrived, and I tried to get some sympathy out of her. She gave me a little, until she put her hand on my forehead. Her hand was shockingly hot. I think she had stuck it in the toaster, just to prove some crazy point. “You feel cool,” she told me. “Well, you feel hot,” I said, “so there.”

Maybe I’m fine, I thought, and all I need is a little fresh air. I put on some mascara. My mother-in-law looked at me and said, “Well, you look sick.” I put on my sunglasses, and headed out the door.

There’s nothing like a beautiful springtime day to really bring into relief one’s own acute misery. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and everyone else trotting around on the sidewalk looked vigorous and brimming with good health. I, on the other hand, looked like someone had just killed my dog. And no one had! My dog was home, busily shedding his winter coat all over every square inch of my apartment. I kept walking and walking. I was going to stop somewhere for tea or to look at books or whatever it is I normally enjoy doing, but I realized that if I stopped, I would not be able to make it back home. Finally I turned around and headed back. Heading back meant going uphill. I was miserable. My legs were shaking. Walking was a terrible idea. My fever was undoubtedly out of control. My brain was being roasted.

Then I got home and took my temperature. 99.2. I got into bed, but I didn't feel good about it. Stupid baby sickness.

My head is packed, but not with ideas.

What peanut butter tastes like without one’s sense of smell:

Spackle.

What everything else tastes like:

Spackle.

Come on--everything? What about an orange? A smoothie? Hot and sour soup? Or here, have some sushi with extra wasabi.

Spackle, spackle, spackly liquid, slightly salty spackle.

Worst thing about losing sense of smell (hereafter referred to as “smellability”):

Unable to indulge in morning ritual of smelling Charlie’s popcorn-scented paws.

Greatest thing EVER about losing smellability, according to Charlie:

See above.

Best thing about losing smellability:

Able to use the bathroom immediately after husband has befouled it.

Items used to confirm loss of smellability:

Coffee, Windex, dog’s paws, air freshener, armpits, dog’s paws, top of preschooler’s head, dog’s paws, dog’s paws.

What it feels like to not be able to smell anything:

luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh

“Lurh”? That’s the best you can do, Ms. Fancy Wordsmith?

It’s my experience of not being able to smell. You wouldn’t understand.

Just don’t claim that’s onomatopoeia, because it is so not onomatopoeia.

I would never claim such a thing.

The only thing going on inside brain, which was once jam-packed with self-conscious musings, lyrics to Gilbert O'Sullivan's "Alone Again, Naturally," and revenge fantasies involving eighth grade bully:

Luuuuuurrrrrrhhhhhhhhhh

That’s what I thought.

Shut up. I'm sick.

There, there. Here’s some spackle for you.

luuuuurrrrrrhhhhhhhh

And here's my last whiny post of 2005.

Oh, but I am feeling low.

I could blame the chocolates my mom bought my husband--my delightfully Jewish husband who is all, “I do not understand you Christians and your strange Christ-birthday; who is this ‘Christ’?” and then insists that my family only give him presents that he can consume. So we get these damn chocolate confections that are incredibly delicious; one of them makes you feel that you require twelve more, and then the second one provides you with the sensation of needing to tear your skin from your face and set your pants on fire. I ate three.

Also, Henry is sick. We put him in preschool and he fought off every virus that came his way, but one weekend with my family was all it took to bring him down. The night before last he had the CROUP, and we immediately rushed him into the steamy bathroom and sat there until the ceiling melted. He continued to whuuup and hurrk far long than he ever had before, but then as we discussed our imminent trip to the ER, he decided hospitals were not his thing, and the episode passed. But now he’s all drippy and crusty and feverish, and when I’m not worried about him I’m worried about how I’m going to keep from killing him.

He is moany and whiny and needy and I can understand why, but he’s not needy in a way I understand. Lying on the couch requesting blankets and tea—this I can understand. Running around and throwing toys while wearing nothing but socks and screaming at me to take off his socks—this is his version of being sick, and it makes no sense to me. No he does NOT want soup, take that blanket OFF him, he LIKES shivering, and don’t THINK about giving him Motrin, on second thought the Motrin tastes like candy so give him EXTRA, what do you MEAN extra is bad for him? THE NAKED BOY WANTS EXTRA MOTRIN.

When he isn’t demanding that I overdose him, he wants me to play, except what he really wants is not for me to play—he wants me to sit next to him and watch him as he plays. This way lies madness, as we know, but I am not given much of a choice in the matter. If I try to pick up an action figure and join him in playtime, I am berated. If I attempt to rise and get a glass of water, or maybe use the bathroom, there is much screaming and pleading for my company. If I sit right next to him and read a book, the book is torn from my hands. My attention is demanded constantly, but it’s only to acknowledge whatever it is he is doing. “Look, Mommy!” he announces, holding up Batman. “I am holding Batman!” Pause. “Look! Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!” and so on, until I respond, “Yes, that’s Batman, all right.”

Repeat this with every one of his two hundred figures.

I am bored out of my mind. Literally, I have no mind.

So maybe this is not the best day to take stock of my life. But whoops, too late.

Waaaay back, I got an MFA in creative writing and I told myself I would have a novel published before I had a child. Ha, ha! No really, I did! I know! Then when I was pregnant I downscaled my ambitions to, “Hmm, I should really get a short story published before I give birth.” I didn’t make that goal either, but I did eventually get two stories published. And a poem. Which, okay, more than zero! Not so bad! But really if I consider myself a writer, I should have more than two stories published in my lifetime. Two stories (and a poem) would make a crappy collection.

So now I’m working on a book. Which is nice, to have an idea, to be working on something. To finally, after years of struggling with rock-bottom expectations and crippling self-doubt and blar de blar twelve years of therapy blar, be doing what I’ve always want ed to do. Except! I have no time! Ever! Because there’s this child! Whom I think a great deal of, who’s really a great kid, but who demands every second of my time! And I may be just a wee bit resentful about that!

I’ve been getting up at six in the morning to write. I am not a morning person. But Henry isn’t either, and as he gets up at 8 at the earliest, it seemed the perfect time to get some things done. But by the time I get a cup of tea, turn on the lights, find my robe, use the bathroom, stare at my freaky morning hair in the mirror, turn on the computer, and try not to throw up as I see what I wrote the day before—by the time I’m ready to write it’s 6:30. So the most I can do is an hour and a half of writing. And it’s not enough. I need that much time just to remember why I’m sitting there, what brought me to that place and what it was I wanted to say, again.

Today I made the mistake of reading an interview between Paul Auster and Jonathan Lethem, and they were talking about the five or six hours each day they devote to their writing, how satisfying it was to have SO MUCH time to write! Devoting those hours to their Art infuses the rest of the day with a “kind of grace,” they agreed. And I thought, if I see you fuckers on the street—and there’s a good chance I will; they’re both around here somewhere, I’ve seen them before—I am going to kick you in the shins. Six hours! Hey, Jonathan: once we were at the same party and you were dancing and you danced like a moron and I laughed. And then you went home and wrote a masterpiece. Wait, that didn't make me feel better. Asshole.

I don’t know how anyone who is a mother is also a writer. I suppose you have to achieve a certain level of success so that you can hire a nanny without killing yourself from the financial burden or from the guilt or choosing your nonexistent career over your child. But if I don’t have the time, then I can’t write the book, so I can’t get the money, which I need to, um, have the time. I go around and around like this, and then I want to throw up. Or maybe that's the chocolates.

I am sorry to end the year like this, so I will say Happy New Year, and then I will go to bed, and maybe tomorrow, the last day of 2005, will suck a tiny bit less.