When the only direction is up...

8:11 a.m.

A father and mother lie in bed. One is recovering from recent back surgery, and the other is suffering from overwhelming nausea. A child calls from another room. The father stirs, but pain tethers him to the bedsheets. The mother sits up, becomes dizzy, and slowly reclines. The child's calling continues, and higher, punctuated babbles chime in via the baby monitor. Yet another child's voice joins in. He asks for toast. The parents rise up briefly, then fall back in unison, as if rehearsing some pathetic, mournful dance. The mother giggles into her pillow.

6:53 p.m.

A mother kneels in the kitchen. As she scrubs purple from the tile, fluid fills her throat. The children ask for dinner. The mother pulls out a pot, fills it, and has to sit down. One boy mixes malt and milk in a cupped hand, and a speckled mixture winds down his arm. Sounds of a distant spill echo the first. The father comes from his room, steadies himself on the couch, focuses on a blank wall. The mother cries into her dishcloth.  

And so it went, and went, and went, until we were convinced that our children were legal orphans. Then on Saturday morning, I woke up feeling like a normal person. Even though Eric remained practically bedridden, at least I could tend to the family's needs. My tender Zachary was the first to notice a change: I overheard him say to Eric, "Mom is my girl." Yes, my dears, you officially have one functioning parent. Here's hoping that it lasts!