Back to my PTSD: mostly, mine stems around Ari's asthma. There were the usual stresses about sleeping and waking, talking and walking, listening and rebelling, eating and pooping. But the asthma SUCKS. Ari's first bout of RSV was in July, 2008. He was four months old. He was hospitalized for days, mostly as a precaution, but either nobody told me that, or I was too distressed to hear it. What followed basically involved my weeping in some doctor's lap, him running out of the room for a psych consult (mild exaggeration), and all three of us (that is, the two mommies and the cat) freaking out every time the baby coughed Forevermore.
Ari recently had what was probably RSV again, and he left a new trail of contagion. Barbara and her boss and I had bronchitis and pneumonia and sinus infections which lasted weeks while Ari was well in about five days. Anyway, we are all always sick, though it seems (Please, Jesus!) to be better this year.
To keep our selves from dying of stress, B and I have developed quasi-humorous rituals. We kneel at the foot of our bed and pray. We bow down before Allah and meditate to become one with the Buddha. We make deals and promises and melodramatic proclamations to the Norse gods and the Egyptian mummies. Whatever. We don't want to miss anyone. Just in case. It is a lot of worship and prayer for a house full of atheists. We giggle at our contortions, but we feel okay about the giggling because no well-meaning deity could fault us for giggling while doing our best to honor him or her. Right?
I feel we are a study in what happens to PTSD victims/survivors who have no faith. We waffle in our faithlessness because honestly, what sane parents put their beliefs in front of their children? I would become a Republican evangelical in a heartbeat if I thought it would keep Ari healthier. Who's with me?
On a good night, it goes like this: We hear a cough over the baby monitor, and we discuss whether to go and give him a treatment like two rational, atheist mommies, and then one of us, needing some tension relief, starts to pretend pray. The other one checks on him, and he's breathing slowly, sleeping soundly, what asthma parents call "moving plenty of air." She comes back to find the other still prostrate in devotion and announces, "he's fine." Our eyes meet over the heap of unfolded laundry, and the standing one pulls the other one up off of the floor. Then there is some kind of a romantic moment, somehow, with us half entangled in the laundry and engulfed in gratitude for so many, many things. Free breathing, midnight make out sessions, humor in trying times, the love of our absolute lives in this house in the form of our three imperfect selves. There's a spirituality to it, even though we're only making fun. And then, oh excellent deity, we throw the laundry aside and sleep.
Ari recently had what was probably RSV again, and he left a new trail of contagion. Barbara and her boss and I had bronchitis and pneumonia and sinus infections which lasted weeks while Ari was well in about five days. Anyway, we are all always sick, though it seems (Please, Jesus!) to be better this year.
To keep our selves from dying of stress, B and I have developed quasi-humorous rituals. We kneel at the foot of our bed and pray. We bow down before Allah and meditate to become one with the Buddha. We make deals and promises and melodramatic proclamations to the Norse gods and the Egyptian mummies. Whatever. We don't want to miss anyone. Just in case. It is a lot of worship and prayer for a house full of atheists. We giggle at our contortions, but we feel okay about the giggling because no well-meaning deity could fault us for giggling while doing our best to honor him or her. Right?
I feel we are a study in what happens to PTSD victims/survivors who have no faith. We waffle in our faithlessness because honestly, what sane parents put their beliefs in front of their children? I would become a Republican evangelical in a heartbeat if I thought it would keep Ari healthier. Who's with me?
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| Laundry pile, Cat, and B |
On a good night, it goes like this: We hear a cough over the baby monitor, and we discuss whether to go and give him a treatment like two rational, atheist mommies, and then one of us, needing some tension relief, starts to pretend pray. The other one checks on him, and he's breathing slowly, sleeping soundly, what asthma parents call "moving plenty of air." She comes back to find the other still prostrate in devotion and announces, "he's fine." Our eyes meet over the heap of unfolded laundry, and the standing one pulls the other one up off of the floor. Then there is some kind of a romantic moment, somehow, with us half entangled in the laundry and engulfed in gratitude for so many, many things. Free breathing, midnight make out sessions, humor in trying times, the love of our absolute lives in this house in the form of our three imperfect selves. There's a spirituality to it, even though we're only making fun. And then, oh excellent deity, we throw the laundry aside and sleep.
Just ask your non-atheist friends to pray on Ari's behalf. Kidding. Also, I love Shaquanda in the background!
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