I thought about my previous post tonight, when I felt the tightness in my fingers, grip my pants, as my 8 year old was testing my patience tonight. I bit my lip, trying to convince him he needed to be in bed. I really needed to sit and to think in quiet, do some sort of mind-numbing end-of-day activity or something to keep my mind busy. He wasn’t cooperating. “Dammit, Mema (my mother) is sick… I need to sit and think, okay?”
I spit the words out faster than I had even thought of them. There, I’d said it.
“Yes, sick baby. She’s at the doctors (hospital) right now getting checked out.”
That was all I could muster out of my mouth. I quickly ushered a suddenly obedient and now-concerned child back upstairs to bed. I hadn’t wanted to say anything. It isn’t my place, it could very well to turn out to be nothing. But tonight, tonight before we find out, tonight while she undergoes tests, tonight while I sit in the dark quiet of my living room, with my baby babies surrounding me, hugging me, comforting me without knowing it, as I probably whimper silently hoping the worst I’m imagining doesn’t come true, I just needed quiet. I needed silence. I needed to sit.
My teething and cranky 1 year old who’s beckoning me at the moment (and when I say beckoning, I mean wailing like a country singer into a microphone over his lost love). Apparently she has other plans.
God help me.