On the Mend

When you woke at 11:30 and 3:30 and 5:30 last night you were congested but your head also held the clamminess of a broken fever.  And though the whites of your eyes are still tinged pink and your eyelids still webbed with red veins, you are much more yourself today.  When I put you in the bouncy chair you hung there fairly listlessly, as though you were to be dragged under by some kind of current presently, but you tolerated existing in an upright fashion without being held.  Your nose only needs to be wiped every five minutes instead of every thirty seconds.  In short: you are on the mend.

Last night we ate spaghetti and meatballs by the fire.  After you went to bed, Gak and I took turns reading to Thisbe from a Magic Treehouse book:  New York, the Great Depression, a unicorn.  After Thisbe went to bed, Gak and I tried to come up with a title for my book.  We put concrete nouns from the book in one empty popcorn bowl and abstract concepts in another; then she would pull out a scrap of paper and I'd pull out a scrap of paper and the result would usually be tremendously stupid:  "Cougar Remediation" or "Yurt Grace" or "The Sacred Toaster" or "Remote Roofalanche."  Other than giving the narrative a final read and finishing up things like End Notes and Acknowledgements, I'm almost ready to send the book to my editor.  And maybe this is why the title is so psychologically difficult, because it's the last thing I get to control before the memoir is out of my hands. 

Then again, I wrote the memoir in the first place because Holden is such an impossible place to describe and I wanted to give it a try.  So, to try to sum up the place and my journey in the place and the style of the writing (poetic-funny-edgy-religious!) in a few words (that also work as appropriate search terms on Amazon!) feels impossible.  It's like trying to name your baby a year after her birth.

Anyway, today was filled with more skating, a new board game, a luxurious hour for Mama at the coffee shop and then the Long Wait for Daddy's return from Man Camp.  The Long Wait was preceded by the Long Drive.  Bright sun, sinking temps and the wind gusting faster and faster meant that some portions of 35W resembled the inside of a cloud, some resembled a haunted house with fog machine, some a mountain ridge (clouds rolling over the back) and some parts the sudsing portion of the car wash.  Meanwhile, my wiper blades were stuck in a vertical position, further obscuring the already hazy view.  And since the roads were bad everywhere, the Man Bus was about 90 minutes late.  As another wife described it on Facebook, the polar vortex of weather approaching Northfield is nothing compared to the polar vortex of the wives waiting for their partners to return.  You and Thisbe were ecstatic to see your father.  I was rather proud that I didn't hurl any loose objects at him as he entered the house.  But he had a great time.  And I am glad he had a great time.  And I am glad that you are well again.  KNOCK ON WOOD.