A Girl...

Caretaker

Picking up where I left off yesterday:

Although deep down I want Simon to have everything his little pink heart desires, I do believe he should work for it once in a while, dammit. Or if not work for it, at least know, understand, feel the pangs of denial--however momentarily--that accompany the old chestnut "You can't always get what you want." This way, having suffered, when he finally does get what he wants (and he will, because he always does), he'll at least have the perspective necessary to appreciate the windfall. Kind of like my parents have always taught me the value of a dollar and the pure satisfaction of hard work well done; I got my first job at fourteen, paid my entire college tuition, and never begged for rent money (although that last bit's mediated by my having lived at home until I was twenty-two, but whatever, DETAILS). I'm surely better for their tough-love--neither wasteful nor stingy but somewhere in between and practical--and I'd like to pass that value on, in some form, to the next generation. Although now that I'm grown, Mom, Dad, it'd be totally okay with me if you handed over that secret trust fund you've been hiding all these years in order to keep me humble and unspoiled; I promise to appreciate the hell out of it now that I've seen how the working half lives.

What? Still nothing? Damn.

***

And now for something completely a little bit different:

I'm not the most domestic person out there. I want a house and a husband and a baby or two, sure, but to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what I'll do with it all once I have it. It's easy to imagine various versions of the far-off, rainbow-tinted future, but until I'm actually in it, I'll never know whether I'm competent (let alone happy) staying at home and cooking potroast or working a full-time job to pay for toddler French lessons or living all by my lonesome with eight(een) cats. Since it's impossible to know que sera, I'm trying not to waste time speculating, but in the meantime, as I sit here, patiently, waiting for the future to arrive (look how patiently!), I can't help planning and preparing for the possibilities.

This is where the uneasiness arises: I think of my place in any number of domestic scenarios and then realize I don't feel fully prepared for success in any of those roles. And even though I probably won't feel competent until I'm actually living one or a combination of those lives, I still think I'd better start learning to cook potroast and tuck hospital corners, just in case.

On Tuesday, Simon and I stayed home from work because he said his "skin had the flu," by which I understood that he had those epidermal creepy-crawlies that make wearing a cotton T-shirt such a test of wills that putting on pants of any sort is out of the question, and hence, no work. Aside from sleeping in and shunting my own responsibilities in solidarity with my beau, I poured him some cereal and made him some fresh o.j. and tucked the covers up under his chin. (By "fresh" o.j. I don't mean squeezed by hand from the fruits of our backyard citrus tree but "fresh" as in not the rotten sludge I pulled out of the fridge and, although it was looking a little...thick, I urged him to drink it all gone, that is until he described it as "sparkly," like a bottle of grape juice accidentally left to ferment in the backseat of a car all summer; sorry, honey.)

For the rest of the day, he worked in bed, under the electric blanket, and I worked from the couch, under the cat. I'd check on him every hour or so to see if he needed anything, although, really, he was in fine condition to get himself a glass of water or a snack or use the bathroom (bullet: dodged), which was all he ever needed. He said his skin still felt icky and he was lethargic, but that's as bad as it got (thank goodness), so it was a pretty easy shift of caretaking duties for Nurse Leah.

But since I tend to overthink and overdramatize (you knew it was coming, didn't you?), I found myself standing outside the bedroom door at one point trying to tap into some telepathic well that would help me know, without asking, what he might need to make him feel better. I don't know about you, but when I was sick (or sad or angry or troubled) my mom always knew just what I needed, be it a hug, cookies, or just a little room to breathe. But how did she know? Was it instinct or a learned skill, honed over time? (Or could it be that her actions were irrelevant because it was she, Mommy, who made it better, and not the backrubs or the slice of warm applesauce cake?)

Although I've been trying to convince Simon for years that we really need to get the whole telepathy thing in working order because think of the time we could save!, as of Monday, I wasn't getting any secret mind messages while I stood outside the door to the temporary infirmary. I was bummed. I wanted to enter the bedroom with a mug of tea or a cool washcloth or a quesedilla with sour cream and avacado and see the look on his face when he realized that here is a woman who can take care of him properly.

Instead I pushed through the door with nothing more than a smile on my face and a kiss ready at my lips, and then I hunkered down and just outright asked him if there was anything I could get or do to make him feel better. And wouldn't you know it, being good at this domestic stuff doesn't mean knowing instinctively what to do and when and how, whether that's anticipating a sick man's parched throat the moment before he notices it himself; adding another blanket to the bed, over just his feet; or having the foggiest clue of what even goes into a potroast. Nope, sometimes it's just asking questions, learning, feeling the way and, above all, putting forth a good effort. And sometimes, wouldn't you know it, it's as simple as just being there, being me. Love itself is nourishment and remedy.