They say that a healthy child is akin to winning the lottery. They are right. And when you’re the parent of a healthy child, and in the moments your child becomes sick, you begin to understand why.

After some Tylenol, the fever dropped, she went to bed, slept through the night, save for some fussing. However this morning she woke up burning up – 102 – and after about two spinach smoothies and some Tylenol, things weren’t changing. A quick call to the pediatrician and by 10:30 a.m. I was hightailing it into their offices to make sure all was OK.

She was drinking, eating fruit, playing. Snuggly and clingy, yes, but I wasn’t worried. It is not my job to worry.

Fast forward 20 minutes from walking in the door to the doctor’s office today and you’d find me in a patient room, my entire body draped over my child’s upper torso, her bottom lip quivering, turned inside out from the sheer intensity of fear and pain she was feeling as two nurses worked to prep her so they could insert a catheter into her. Somehow I decided that I should play the Stevie Wonder station on my iPhone Pandora app, but with the screaming, and the nurses chattering at me with instructions that I couldn’t hear over my sweet girl’s terror-filled cries, Al Green wasn’t doing much to help the situation.

Which ended up being fine. The moment the nurse picked up the thin, clear flexible tube to begin, Abigail began to urinate all over. And, thankfully, the other nurse was ready with a cup to collect it all.

“This is a margarita Mother’s Day, Mom,” said the nurse to me with a laugh.

She’s not wrong, but you know, my poor girl.

–

My own mother did not do a lot right. It is not, I suppose, particularly kind to belabor that point, but her deficits as a parent inform a great deal of who I am, and in the moments – the every day, day-to-day, really – I parent, I often ask myself, “What would Cathy do and what should I do differently?”

Except for caring for a sick child.

I’m not saying her methods were correct or effective – for every ailment my mom would make us Lipton black tea with sugar. And open a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup. With butter-slathered crackers. Why plying children with caffeine, sodium and sugar seemed a good idea, I’ve not a clue. But, she validated the sick. The sadness that comes with being a child who doesn’t feel well and isn’t yet equipped to deal with that in any fashion remains one of my most gut-wrenching memories of childhood.

Cathy would brush my hair until I fell asleep. She’d rub my stomach for hours until it settled. When I began to wake up in the middle of the night, and started to see “spots” and feel “heavy,” as though I was being pushed and pulled simultaneously, Cathy let me sit up and watch our tank of goldfish until the feeling subsided and I could go back to sleep. She was even brave enough to take me to the pediatrician, who said I suffered from “hypnagogic hallucinations,” a sleeping condition I eventually grew out of but is probably a contributing factor for why I love the mornings more than the late night.

In the last years of her life, she never went to the lengths to care for my sister and I as she did when we were little – her life became too complicated and sad – but there was the hope. There was always the hope that we’d see that again. From my vantage, each day was a struggle for her. Cathy might as well have been vapors for as much presence as she commanded.

But when she was truly gone, so too were the bowls of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup. The Vicks vapor rub on our chests. Someone to put a damp, cold cloth on our heads throughout the night. No one was brushing our hair well after we’d fallen asleep. No tea, no tummy rubs. It was all gone. The hope, though … its absence was felt just as heavily as anything else was.

–

There is a wonderful line from Anne Lamott where she talks about how she lived in a house with no Band-Aids, and how not having Band-Aids left her feeling just a little less safe, a little less protected by the people who should make her feel cared for more than anyone. As a result, now hers is a home chock-full with Band-Aids.

Before Abigail was born, I told Scott he was welcome to take issue with how I parent with just about anything but not with how I mother my child when she’s sick.

“My child will never feel alone when she doesn’t feel good,” I told him. “I don’t care what’s wrong. She’ll always know her mother is there.”

And so I am the one who holds her after her shots. I insist on her being able to watch as much Elmo on my iPad as she wants when she has a cold so wicked we’ve stopped even wiping her nose. There are extra banana slices and Cheerios, sometimes we spend a little more time snuggling on the floor with her Pooh Bear.

I always run my fingers through her wisps of hair until she settles soundly against my chest, ready to give up the ghost and just sleep.

–

Abigail is fine. It’s possible she has a bladder infection; she was given antibiotics today, and will take more tomorrow. We have to head back in the morning to follow up and we get the final test results Monday.

But she’s not feeling well, and wants to sit on my lap and snuggle and eat Cheerios together and watch Elmo and sing songs and read books and drink smoothies and just be sick.

I am happy to give that to her. Tonight as I sang and rocked her to sleep, I ran my fingers through her hair and kissed her head, over and over, telling her I love her, how brave she was today, how sorry I was that she had such a tough day and how hard I know it was for her to have to deal with everything she did.

This picture above is of AG and I last year, the Friday before Mother’s Day. She’d just received her first shot that the nurses said would leave her cranky and upset. We’d just gotten her to a point where she was napping on her own, and so it sent a chill up my spine to think about spending the whole day in the recliner with her on my chest.

But then I remembered, “What would Cathy do and what should I do differently?”

And the answer was, “Not a fucking thing.”

I manned up and let that sick, sad little baby sleep on my chest for four hours straight.

–

So Sunday is Mother’s Day. Like so many moms, I’ve one foot in total confidence in the job I am doing and another squarely in a pit of quicksand. I’ve not a clue as to what I’m doing, and while I feel secure that I’m doing well on the foundational, fundamentals of raising my daughter, I’m keenly aware that new challenges remain around the corner that will no doubt shake all of that to hell.

Really, it’s far too early in the race to make any predictions. I’m fine with this.

But for now, like, for right-now-today, I know I did OK.

Thanks, Cathy.

Typically I try not to get worked up over celebrity death, but today Maurice Sendak died, and I’m tremendously heartbroken.

Apropos, I suppose, that it’s approaching Mother’s Day, and to say that the mother I want to be, the mother I hope that I’m becoming, is one who respects and understands the complexity of her daughter. Who simultaneously teaches her child what’s right and what’s wrong, while encouraging her to find ways to express how she feels about all of it. I want to be the sort of mother who pushes her daughter to dream and to dare, to take on the world and risk…

…to stomp out the door in a flurry of fury, all the while knowing that supper will be hot when she comes home. That she always has a home to come home to. I hope I am brave enough of a parent to help her through all of this. Because, really, there’s no escaping it.

What a fantastically brilliant curmudgeon. What a truth-teller. What a gift.

1) You can talk about the weight you’ve lost, but you have to be completely and totally emotionally disconnected from having done it, because OF COURSE you loved yourself 100 percent with the weight, and it has no bearing on how you feel about yourself or others, because OF COURSE your own personal choice to lose weight speaks VOLUMES about other people and their bodies.

2) You cannot talk about weight loss if you haven’t done it in a manner that pleases everyone and passes the myriad yard sticks they use to gauge whether it was a) healthy b) long-lasting c) not at all filled with self-loathing d) full of feminist power. If you so much as hint that you’ve lost weight in any fashion the masses deem inappropriate, we don’t want to hear from you. You’re likely to set off an entire generation of young girls into a dieting tizzy, and how responsible is that?

3) You cannot actually talk about weight you’ve gained unless you’re absolutely forthcoming as to a) the emotional turmoil that certainly resulted in it b) the self-loathing that all of the “sacrifice” and “healthy eating” left you with, because OF COURSE saying no to a second helping or eating more vegetables instead of chocolate is ANTI-PERSON, to say nothing of ANTI-INTELLECTUAL and OF COURSE only DUMB PEOPLE watch their weight or c) the fact that you don’t really care because OF COURSE you have more important things to do.

4) You cannot actually talk about weight you’ve lost unless you’ve incorporated all organic, non-processed, unrefined, whole-wheat, Omega 3s-filled, clean, raw whozeewhatits into your daily diet, I mean, LIFESTYLE, and also have figured out how to devote an hour, each day, to exercises that combine the best of kettleballs, Zumba, plyometrics, Bikram yoga and Tai Chi every blessed time you strap on your running shoes. Oh, and a heart rate monitor. DON’T FORGET YOUR HEART RATE.

Oh, I could go on.

Here’s the thing: I don’t care whatsoever about you and your body. I’m 36, I have a family, a full-time job, friends and loved ones, a mortgage, a dog, a monthly cell phone bill that rips at my soul, an upstairs bathroom that seems to exists solely to attract centipedes, to say nothing of the wiry hairs that have taken over my chin and refuse to be contained. In short, I don’t have the – excuse the phrase – bandwidth to worry about what you do or do not do to your body.

Don’t assume I judge you because you don’t work out. Or because you work out every day. Or because you’re thin. Or fat. I am absolutely over the condescension that comes with what people do or do not do with their bodies. Do I believe health is a gift? Yes. Too many people are at a disadvantage in ways immeasurable to count, so when folks disrespect their bodies it’s a shame, and, you know, weight isn’t the only fashion in which this happens. Do I think someone is a less of a person because of it? Oh God NO. What a stupid waste of time. Do I wish it was OK for me to want to lose weight and workout daily? Yes. In some circles, it seems to be OK. In others? Well, not so much.

Which brings me to my current state.

I get comments almost daily from folks about the weight I’ve lost. I don’t pretend that it was something other than being sick for nearly a month that caused it, but I also should cop to the fact that I’m also working to maintain the loss. After all, I’d been committed to losing weight and regaining my health since I got the All Clear from my doctors right after Abigail was born, and up until the stress fracture in November, I’d been steadily succeeding at my goal. It wasn’t as though I didn’t want to lose those 13 pounds, thanks. And so when my surgeon said I’d lost more than normal, and that because of the less-than-optimal circumstances in which I lost the weight, I’d likely see it all return, I left his office deciding that, oh hell no, I’m not going through that again.

It’s been a month. I’ve kept it off. And that’s without working out.

I would like to be sheepish about it all, but screw that. I love wearing some of my old favorites. It’s nice to feel less frumpy. The compliments are fine, but I much more enjoy not feeling as though my insides are being pulverized in a pair of boot cuts.

Not for nothing, I even have some pajama pants I’d forgotten about that fit again, too.

What I’ve said before is true: I truly don’t want to experience again what I did in March. It’s only this weekend where I’m able to lift my daughter again to put her to bed. It’s been awful to not be an active participant in my life, and it’s given me resolve to take seriously my health and my desire to be present for my family. I miss dairy, I do, and I miss big helpings of food, and I miss pop and coffee (though I’ve taken to reintroducing a half-cup into my mornings again) and wine every night but it’s just a choice I’m making today.

The fact that it’s also made me more pleased with how my ass looks in a pair of jeans is just a welcome and happy side effect.

I have another week before I can do anything resembling working out, which stinks. I am still have some residual soreness at my side, but as long as I’m careful about my diet and rest I seem to notice it less. I won’t be lifting any time soon, but we’ll try some walk/running. I will see the inside of a boot camp class again.

For now I am enjoying my health and my weight loss. So help me God, I really am.

I wasn’t totally shocked by this, of course, but really just saddened. Long-time readers know that Glin Bear is my trusted companion, best buddy and, if I’m honest, first baby. Knowing I’d have to relegate her to second-class status made me heartsick and guilty. When Abigail was in the throws of Hell Baby, I mean, colic, I remember leaning into Glinny, sobbing in her fur, apologizing over and over again for bringing this into our once-peaceful lives.

Glinny responded by licking my face and went back to watching the baby.

One of the things that happened when Abigail was born was that Glinny finally had a job. She made it her duty to be up and near that baby at first peep. I swear that Glin was perhaps as sleep-deprived as we were. While I know it was pack-instinct kicking in, there was something about Glin’s reaction to the baby that made all of my guilt easier, and it made me happy to see Glinny be protective, rather than territorial, with the new addition to our little group.

But now, well, things are different.

I won’t say that Abigail is the bane of Glin’s existence – after all, with all of the food that kid intentionally drops at Glin’s feet, no matter where she is, life with the baby is a literal moveable feast. What I will say is that Abigail is absolutely enamored and in love with Glin, in that annoying, cloying, unfiltered way that toddlers are with animals for whom they haven’t a lick of fear. Abigail has always loved Glinny, a fact evident when she first started growing out of her newborn phase and into the more-aware-of-her-surroundings baby phase. It’s all just been multiplied as she gets older.

There are many daily attempts at fetch, which really is just Abigail picking up one of Glin’s toys, toddling over to Glin, and Abigail either trying to force the toy into Glin’s mouth or dropping it at her feet. There are countless saunters to a resting, quiet, lying Glinny so that Abigail can pet and cuddle and paw at the dog.

Glinny doesn’t snap or get aggressive. Even when Abigail marches over to Glin and takes a ball right from Glin’s mouth, Glin happily plays along. Or does so begrudgingly. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Last week, before I was pummeled with a nasty cold, I made a command decision to reward Glinny for all she’s put up with this year. All of the treats she missed out on. All of the times we’ve shooed her away. All of the walks we didn’t take. This week, I told myself, Glin would get time with me alone for a morning walk. “It’s time,” I thought. “No more putting it off.”

We lost our “family dog” about three weeks ago. Piper was the first golden my parents bought since our last dog died when I was in high school. She was the best dog, the smartest dog we ever had, and for a long time the REAL only baby of our family. I’m not ashamed to tell you I cried when Lynette told me that Piper spent her last Saturday morning playing outside, and by the afternoon had curled up next to the back door, short of breath. As my parents realized what was happening, they sat down next to her and gently petted her white-and-copper-tinged fur. In one final breath, Piper looked up at both of them, put her head down, and was gone.

Glinny will be seven in July, which is hard for me to believe, but a solid reminder of how fast time flies, how much faster it flies by with a kid. Glinny deserves 30 minutes of my day. Especially since Abigail has taken to climbing onto Glinny at unsuspecting moments. This week I’ve had to say “Do not sit on the dog” more than Glin would like.

Seriously. The walk is the least I can give her.

I don’t mean to be vague, but there have been a whole host of important and unimportant happenings in my life since January, all of which have served to touch on every raw, exposed, twitchy and unformed nerve in my being. Some of this I’ve mentioned here – my Dad’s stroke, my gallbladder attack – but others I haven’t for the same reason I’ve never disclosed every detail of my life here. All that said, I can’t deny that all of these things, these stressors, have made me miserable in a way I haven’t been in my life in what seems like eons.

I consider myself to be an optimistic person, so it’s been easy to put on a smile and keep moving forward. But underneath it all existed a current of sadness and insecurity that I was never able to wrangle. And I tried so hard, too – extra sleeping, more reading, journaling, self-help books, deep breaths, hot showers, prayer, retail therapy, food therapy, seriously, anything I could think of. Until the gallbladder attack, and subsequent forced rest, I had a reached a point where I was really just hanging on until summer, when invariably the sunshine and street fairs and humidity usher in reprieve whether we ask for it or not.

But then. Then I had to sit still for nearly three weeks. No, scratch that. I was seriously sick and ill and the choice to “sit still” was made for me. Up until the end of my recovery, I wasn’t thinking about sitting still, but was just resting because the alternative was pain. It is amazing what happens in such instances.

My insecurities were of no consequence when in the middle of the night my body was completely betraying me in the most grotesque fashion. There was no time for drowning in the “what if’s” and maudlin thinking when all I wanted was enough time to pass that I could be administered (or administer for myself) another dose of pain relief. I’d been removed from the races of rats and, because this was simply a faulty gallbladder, and not anything more serious, I quickly returned to it all only to learn I’d inadvertently shut my brain off long enough to rest it, and as a result, my body.

I currently have a healthier perspective on life. It’s a relief. That rest did me such a world of good. I am a new woman.

As I understand it, plenty of people get pummeled by depression and blues during this late-winter, early spring time frame. One of the things my GP did after I was diagnosed with PPD was run a series of blood tests, one of which revealed a ridiculously low amount of Vitamin D in my system. It’s true it was gray and rainy. It was true I was sleep-deprived. It was true I never saw the light of day. Or the air. So if you combine this seasonal malaise, as it was this time last year and all, it all makes extra sense.

That said.

I feel lighter. I don’t know how else to say it. I feel as though I can lift cars, or at least clean them. I can be thankful. I can be healthier. I can read and enjoy a book. I can concentrate on a hobby that has nothing to do with what has been my favorite after-school activity, seeing how much time I can fritter away being anxious and unsure of myself.

Knitting has nothing on casting doubt on yourself and questioning every blessed move you make.

I often think about the lessons I hope to teach my daughter, the things I hope to instill in her. There are things about her, already, that so obviously innate to her being that it blows my mind. There are those things, though, that it’s clear that we’re teaching her that it’s equally mind-blowing. Just how important is this parenting task I ask you? I mean, it’s not the *only* thing in life, but already we’ve worked to challenge Abigail to figure things out for herself, to sit with unhappiness and to do the hard work of, well, hard work and you can see, really and truly, how this is the difference between introducing an asshole into society or a productive member.

Anyway.

My greatest hope is that it doesn’t take a life-threatening, painful illness to bring my daughter to a settled spot where she can find peace, where she can find confidence. I want her to be proud of who she is, even when she’s wrong, and not question herself incessantly, not apologize for being in the room. Recently I received some empowering, game-changing professional advice from someone who I respect a great deal. He instructed me to “wear my crown,” because I’d “earned it,” he said. Oh, if I can only work to make it so my daughter doesn’t need anyone to tell her such things.

I can’t protect her from everything. I don’t know that I want to. But I can teach her to weather the storms. I can help her to have faith in herself, and remind her every day that her parents have faith in her too. That doubting herself is a waste of her precious time and energy. I don’t know if she can avoid these pits I occasionally fall into, but perhaps she can be more adept at climbing out. Or at least being confident that she’ll figure out a way.

–

All this said, I’m great. I’m healthy – I visit my GP next month for some more extensive work – my cholesterol, my thyroid – but I can walk and sleep and do everything but work out and lift things. Even that, though, will end this week. I’ve got brand new orthotics from the running doctor, I’m finally getting over a nasty cold Abigail and I have shared for more than a week, and I just celebrated my 36th birthday by wearing out of the house a pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans that haven’t seen the light of day since 2008.

(Do people even wear these anymore? Seriously. It’s been so long since I bought designer jeans (2007) that I wouldn’t know.)

I don’t want to be accused of fat shaming (sigh), but the very real side effect of this illness has been losing 15 pounds and getting back into a whole mess of clothes I loved wearing. Because I’ve altered my diet and am monitoring things closely still – I still have to eat small meals, not much on the rich or processed side, no dairy – the weight seems to be stabilizing and I feel great. My surgeon mentioned “the American diet” as a cause for gallbladder problems – Surprise! They don’t see this in many other countries – and I’ve taken it to heart. While he is attributing my case to other additional variables, there is no escaping that eating less-than-ideal foods in my lifetime contributes to this. I don’t want to see myself back into the hospital with another problem – diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol – that I could have managed by honoring myself and my health.

So yes, while I’ve lost a whole mess of weight, and that’s great as it means more wardrobe options, it doesn’t at all make me healthy. So I’m trying really hard to walk the walk in a way I’ve only done 85 percent of the time before.

Hopefully this means better care at this blog, and the Tumblr and Twitter and everything else about documenting my life that I haven’t done since my health and brain space took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

I miss it. I hope you have, too.

I want to say something profound about this anniversary, but I’m at a loss for the right words. I’m a little overcome reading that entry, to be honest. Some of it is a reminder too painful of what a dark place I was in (“I can’t begin to explain how life-altering it was to realize that the handful of times I’ve left the house by myself since she was born, I never once really wanted to go back. “) but most serves a strong reminder to me just how important our respective villages are, how none of us can solider on without making ourselves vulnerable to the people who love us most.

The world is so different now. I could have never imagined it. I relied on my faith – and that I am innately a faithful person – to keep putting one foot in front of the other so that I’d get here. To a place where I get a regular seven-to-eight hours of sleep a night. Where my family has a routine. Where my husband and I spend Sunday morning flipping through magazines while our daughter happily plays with her books and toys at our feet. Where my daughter stands up from where she’s sitting to give me a big, open-mouthed, slobbery kiss goodbye.

Abigail did this this morning and my heart melted into a puddle of goo.

If you’ve stumbled upon this, and suspect even remotely that you might be suffering from PPD, get help. Talk to your midwife, OB-GYN or your kid’s pediatrician. Lean on your partner and loved ones. Reach out to Postpartum Support International. If you were like me, and mothering a colicky, fussy baby, the Fussy Baby Network may be a great resource for you. Remember, though, that you’re a great parent and you’ll get through this.

It gets easier. It does. There is immeasurable joy on the other side of all of this. Promise.

It’s been a long three weeks. I’m happy to be back to my routine, though it does mean missing Abigail – she’d come barreling into my bedroom at odd moments with a huge smile on her face and requests for hugs. And it was awesome. But I’m happy to be in actual clothes, wearing makeup and deodorant. I feel human.

I’m still sore – had to lug my laptop today, which stinks because the added weight puts pressure on my body and causes additional pain. But I’m not sick and unable to sit up. Or be away from home.

I have lost weight. Eleven pounds. And counting, it seems. It’s kind of freaking me out, to be honest, but I’ve read that’s a common side effect. Especially if you ate well before and have cut out certain things, which I have, and started eating smaller meals, which I’ve done, too. No dairy, no caffeine, no alcohol, no fried foods or refined sugars. At least in very small quantities. And small meals. Anything else just makes me feel sick and gross. For as painful as all of this was, the digestive issues that accompanied it alone were enough to keep me on the clean-eating path. Just the thought of being sick or taking the chance on it makes me shudder.

Thanks for all of the kind words and comments – I’m in way better shape now, thanks to all of that rest and calm. Hopefully I’ll be back to posting again soon.

So last week, when I said I hadn’t been feeling well, assumed it was hormones and lethargy from the get-together with friends I had the Friday before?

Yeah, no. It was my gallbladder. Not six hours after I wrote that post did I have to immediately get up and walk out of a client meeting and grab a cab home. I had chills, nausea and myriad stomach issues. For the next four hours, I vomited – or attempted to vomit – three times an hour, sometimes more. Things seemed to clear up enough later in the evening, enough for me to believe it was food poisoning, but no. For the next three days this cycle repeated itself to such a degree that we knew it couldn’t be food poisoning, and must be the flu. Friday afternoon and a trip to the ER revealed it was a problem with my gallbladder, which I’d never even thought about.

(Who thinks about their gallbladder, to be fair?)

Sadly, though, the ER triaged me out of there with Vicodin and an appointment to meet with a surgeon on Tuesday. But, after an evening riddled with details that are not at all whatsoever OK to share, we got a second opinion. I had mentioned all of this on Facebook, and a friend of mine from high school who is now a bariatric surgeon reached out to me. There are about a million things I could say about this, but the bottom line is that I could not be more grateful to my friend, grateful to Facebook (for real) and grateful that the twain met.

By noon Saturday, thanks to my friend making a few calls, we were headed to a hospital in Evanston to see a surgeon and learn that the situation with my gallbladder was way worse than the ER ultrasound picked up and so I was admitted that afternoon. It was infected and inflamed, and, according to my surgeon, way worse than your average gallbladder attack/issue. So, the gallbladder was out on Monday, and I’ve been on the couch since being discharged Tuesday afternoon.

For the past two weeks, I have felt like hell. Absolute hell. I mean, obviously, with the infected organ and all. And I’m definitely getting better, but I haven’t had a day where I haven’t had some sort of digestive issue to contend with, and I haven’t left the house in days, AND I can’t lift my kid. For six weeks.

On the heels of the stress fracture, this was just a blow. A depressing, irritating blow. I don’t know how to articulate it well, but for the moment, in the simplest terms, it’s so clear how fast she’s growing and learning. Every day it’s something new. And here I am, once again knocked out of commission, unable to fully, completely actively participate in the care and nurture of my girl without assistance. I feel probably more devastated than necessary – I know how lucky I am to have Scott and family and friends and an awesome job and AG’s nanny – but I am.

And I look at my midsection – bloated, puffy, scarred – and I feel, well, old. Tired. A little bruised. My c-section scar is still red and apparent, and now the small holes from the gallbladder surgery serve as its attendant minions. Things are saggy in a way they never were before. It doesn’t help that I’m sore and underneath all of this bloat and scarring feels like a war went on. Which I suppose it did. It’s hard to believe things will go back to normal. Let’s face it; they may not.

Not to be particularly histrionic here, but I’ll be 36 in 19 days. That isn’t old by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s closer to 40 than 20. On such a spectrum, the reality is that bouncing back from anything isn’t really an option. It’s more of a gentle gait with some light nudging and some gradual stops and starts. I spoke with my friend today, after I spent a bit too much time obsessing that it’s been almost a week since my surgery and I still feel like crap, and he reminded me that I’m probably another full week out from being back at “75% strength,” and another two months before I’m even close to 100%.

This would likely be true for someone in her twenties, I grant you, but I also know that well, I’m not. And right now I just feel it. After a year of just all sorts of medical-related stuff, it’s hard to not feel a bit creaky and worn. It’s hard to believe that I won’t recover from this only to go head-long into another malady that will distract me from work, family and my hobbies.

I mean, there is no Ragnar now. Which is a first-world problem, I get it, but like the NOLA half, it’s just another race I was so looking forward to and now have to scratch off my list.

Gah. Did I mention not being able to pick up my kid?

I’m having a pity party here, I know, and hopefully I’ll shake this soon. After all, I’m lucky to be alive, to have had such a kind and generous friend work so quickly to find me a great surgeon, to have such a village of people in our lives to see us through this latest thing. But I’m tired and I miss feeling healthy and whole and vital. By summer, God willing, I’ll be back to running and boot camp and all of the things I love to do. For now I’m headed back to my bed to whine and pout a little more.

(Crab Rangoon. And some egg rolls. They were good but Lord. Talk about an energy suck.)

I woke up this morning at 4:30 to go hit the gym – I’d scheduled 40 minutes on the stairmill and 20 on the treadmill. But no way. My body was not cooperating and so the gym was out. I was tired, and resigned, but cranky. By 6 I staggered downstairs, feeling even sicker than I had when I woke up, and then was promptly greeted by my husband and his usual morning hug.

I don’t know if it’s been my recent efforts to get a little more centered again, or that I was too tired and sick to continue the energy that comes from being steadfast for staying in a detached, self-absorbed mood, but for the first time in a long time, I went ahead and let him hug me.

I mean really just hug me.

I spend a lot of time insisting that I know the best path for myself but generally I’m an idiot. I can’t tell you how many mornings have probably gone by, how many times Scott has hugged me, and I missed it.

When we talk about the work of marriage, this is what we talk about. And when we talk about the little things of marriage falling by the wayside, this is what we talk about.

Instantly I let myself melt into his chest and smile. Hug back hard. I didn’t feel perfect, but I did feel restored. And lucky.

(Thanks, everyone, by the way, for your kind emails and comments about my Dad. There is no easy way to say your parent/loved one had a stroke, but I mean this sincerely that in the pantheon of strokes, an occipital one is not the worst one to have. At least his was not. I truly don’t want to diminish it, but I also truly don’t want to overstate it, either. He’s doing really well, and seeing a new doctor, and we all feel really lucky it wasn’t worse.)

I am working hard and managing stress better. To be present and mindful. I’m not doing really well at this, but I’m not totally failing, either. It’s like any new skillset. To excel takes time, patience and practice. So I am practicing.

Sitting in stillness with my daughter is one of them. I take with glee the moments she gives me to cuddle up before bed, to let me sing her lullabies and smooch on her head. As Coach Taylor once said, “Money comes and goes, but these kids of ours, that’s a one time deal.” The business of managing our life will wait. Right here, right now, my kid is sighing contentedly and happily and it’s all because of me.

“Dah! DAH! Dahdahdahdah!”

And there it was. After 15 solid minutes of this dreamy, snuggly silence, my sweet girl made it known who she was looking for to join in this – Daddy. No joke, all weekend, it’s been Abigail calling after and for her Dad. I laughed and said, “MaMA! Mama!” Quietly, and, I swear, with an eyeroll, “Mamamamamamamama.”

Perhaps for our entire lives Abigail will simply indulge me, grace me with moments to keep me going, even if they aren’t what she’d choose.

I’ll take it. Again and again. Besides, her Daddy is pretty awesome.