This is not how it should be. Not, at any rate, what I would have it.
I am sick. So sick. On a weekend.
It started at about 11 on Friday night, not long after the last of my 9th grade students left our house and our end-of-year party, the party during which 22 out of 26 of them, the three seniors who crashed it, and I and my three children played Ghost-in-the-Graveyard. I haven’t played that in So Long, and it was So Fun.
But the all-over aching started at about 11 or so, and the vomiting at around 3. That part didn’t last long, but it was just as bad as I remember it.
On Saturday morning I thought that, with the help of a few Advil, I’d be fine.
So here we are, day 2, and I am heavy with that all-over ache, warding off nausea with a weak arm and my second glass of ginger-ale. I’ve managed some laundry and the house is, surprisingly and after Friday night, in good order.
But weekends are for more than this. They are for recovery: from the loss of sleep all week, catching up on grading, family time, time to Think.
Instead my sleep is pocked with bad and vivid dreams and too much wakefulness. I’ve graded two papers but am wondering if, my mind hazy, those grades are fair. I watch my children from the vantage of the couch or the bed, too tired even to read to them. And all my thoughts are sad.
The coming weeks will be busy, So Busy: writing exams and teaching reviews and grading, grading, grading; the senior class trip to NYC which I’m so looking forward to but which will mean missing Emma Grace’s dance recital and a weekend with my family; more exams and more grading and then the grades themselves will be due; our first-ever graduation and all the celebrations and busy-ness and joy and yet-unrealized sadness that will come with that.
Here, from the vantage point of my bed, with my knees aching and my back aching and my head aching, ungraded papers at my side, nothing looks good. Summer is coming, I know, and with it the celebration of our 20th anniversary, time with family, time to write, and a family-of-five trip to France.
But now, right now, the mountain between now and then looms, and I’m only standing at the foot of it, too weak to begin the climb.
These words, though, are good: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”