The egg

Today is day number four that I have woken up sick. I have the flu with constant body aches, fever, cough and a curiously stuffy but still running nose. At this point, I am as drained mentally as I am physically. Case in point, to even figure out the days I have been sick took about 3 minutes, during which time, I caught myself staring into space, chewing my fingernails and sneaking peeks at the Today show until I gave myself a mental slap in the face. Suffice it to say, I am not feeling very sharp and this is probably not the best time to put my thoughts out there. It may very well be the blogging  equivalent of a drunken selfie, posted on social media in one brash move, “f*$# it” being the last thought before sending it off. As mentally dull as I have been recently, most of my days having been spent prostrate on the couch, unable even to read, I have had a hard time mustering the wherewithal to blog. Some of the problem is lack of energy, mental and physical, but mostly it is from lack of inspiration which for me, comes with exercise or driving, most often with music blaring. But, once in a while, something touches me out of the blue and I must write it down so that I can process it, or else it will be shuffled back into the dark recesses of my mind. And so it was last night, with “the egg,”

One day, about 20 years ago, my husband, jokingly pretended to crack an “egg” on our than five-year old daughters noggin. He knocked gently using his knuckles three times, then with his fingers splayed out, simulated what it might feel like if yolk was dripping down her head. He probably thought that she would jump up and scream, first because she thought it was real and then with the indignation of having been fooled. Instead she stood there while the finger yolks spread down over her hair. “Do it again!” she demanded. He did, several times until, with a rush of generosity, she said “do it to Mama!” He did, and at our requests and sometimes spontaneously, he’s been doing the egg ever since.

Last night, feverish and restless and tired of sitting upright, I folded over and put my head on the middle couch cushion for a minute, craving my mothers touch. I wished for a cool hand on my forehead and to hear her to say, “well, that’s it, you aren’t going to school tomorrow.” Instead, I got the egg. Cool and familiar, comfortable and soothing, a small gesture, that says, “I’m here.” It’s the little things that hold us together sometimes, long-standing jokes and stories retold, preferences tolerated and dislikes endured. Confidences shared and someone who always has your back. Or, your head with their hand on it, letting you know they love you.