I was sick this weekend and the only thing worse than not being able to lift my head off my pillow was soaking it with tears over not being able to hold you: I was scared I would make you sick, as now with children any cough, shiver or a-choo causes wide-spread panic comparable to fear of the species-wiping epidemic in “I Am Legend.” (Rightfully so, who wants a house full of everyone vomiting, or turning into rabid zombies, for that matter.)
On a mission this morning to rid the house of germs, I needed to do something with you while I stripped the bed, called the doctor…
I broke down and put on another peculiar Baby Einstein video: “Baby Beethoven.”
While on hold with the doctor I found myself going in my best high-pitched Mother Goose voice, as if we all have it in us when we talk to children, even the actor who played Jamie Gumb in “Silence of the Lambs:” “Look! Baby Boy, at the strange ceramic penguins playing pinball!”
“Look! Baby Girl, at the scary wooden puppets dressed like elves with no faces randomly on the merry-go-round!”
“Look! The Teddy bear in the Liberace blue sequins jacket is playing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ on his little saxophone!” and I even began to sing, “For he’s a jol-lee good fel-low!,” only then unknowingly changed the words to the version Bill Murray sang as Bob Wiley in “What About Bob” to Dr. Leo Marvin: “. . . Your death therapy cured me, you ge-nius!”
…and then my doctor picked up the phone.
I explained to her, in one rambling sentence, that the reason I was calling was because I didn’t know if my symptoms were “normal” or “new normal,” being since the pregnancy, regarding my body, I don’t know what is “normal” anymore and…
I guess this holds true across the board.