The Dessert Years

Last night Petit Prince had the croup and it was a dirty night (literal translation from the french).

Our first experience with the croup was the night before we moved to France when we were thankfully staying at Betsy and Nerses’s place.  At three in the morning Young Lady barked herself awake, and Betsy, who had loads of croup experience with her own kids – the barking cough, the wheeze that makes you think the baby is about take his last breath – told us to sit with her in the bathroom and put the hot shower on to make steam. We did this and it all got miraculously better and we went on our merry way to France the next morning.  A few more incidents like this while here prompted us to pay 80 euros for a humidifier, which served the purpose much more suitably (since our hot water is not very hot and we have almost no water pressure).

But last night the steam didn’t really help the Prince that much.  I sent Sir outside in the cold and dead of night to get the humidifier from the studio, and then asked him if he had washed it carefully.  I remember using an old humidifier in New York one time (to hydrate my skin or something), but it must have been filled with mold because the next day I woke up (it was my birthday) and had to crawl to the phone to call in sick and then crawl back to bed.  It was a pretty lonely and humbling feeling being that sick all alone in a new city.

He washed it carefully, but since we had never been able to find the spout after lending it to some friends, he stuck the elbow of the vacuum cleaner on to make a (ridiculous looking) makeshift spout.  Remembering how much lead dust we sucked up with the vacuum cleaner in months past, I made him wash it again and we settled down to an intermittent night of barking coughs and restless sleep, which was only resolved by a trip to the pediatrician this morning to get a prescription for steroids.

And that brings me to the daily little trials that occupy my thoughts, and their relevance in the grand scheme of things.  I do truly believe that putting time and energy into my children’s mental, spiritual, physical and emotional well being is one of the most important things I can do, and yet there is very little thought that actually goes into it.  Putting time and energy into my own well being deserves an occasional thought or two, but gets almost none at all.  Of course paying taxes, cleaning the house, basic human communication, all of this must occupy some room in my thoughts (and it does succeed in forcing its way in by sheer necessity).

But what I focus my thoughts on most is escape  – the avoidance of dealing with reality, partaking in small pleasures that make the day pass more quickly until I can lose myself in a good sleep.  I read and comment on blogs, occasionally write a post of my own.  I skim the few forums I’m part of and keep re-checking my e-mail, but never respond unless it requires immediate attention.  I sleep when Petit Prince does, wash the clothes but rarely put them away.  I piddle away the day until it’s time to pick up Young Lady and Young Knight up from school, dream a bit as we walk home, and then repeat the process of the morning, only reviving myself when I absolutely have to change a diaper or make dinner or intervene in a dispute before there is blood.

I think the problem is that I just don’t have any energy to devote to anything.  (Our oak floors are completely filled with plaster again and all our dishes are out on the table covered with dust in the window replacement project.  We can’t even bother to clean because it will all start up again on Monday).  My friend whose children are now grown called this lack of energy time period “The Desert Years.”  Befitting, huh?

When typing this genius diagnosis of my energy conundrum to a few of my close friends, I inadvertently typed “The Dessert Years,” which they all adopted, thinking it to be a perfectly reasonable label.  “Are they stressed out?  Let them eat cake!” So this title has stuck and I officially declare myself to be in “The Dessert Years.”

A square of chocolate can be the sweet impetus to get you to clean those dishes in the sink.  A cup of coffee with some non-dairy creamer (the white gold of France since it can only be bought in specialty shops at an exorbitant price) can give you the courage to tidy up the toy-strewn playroom.  And a warm pan of brownies, fresh out of the oven, can get you out of doors to attack the gardening (and tempt others to come over as well).  Even a packet of stale cookies, munched on standing up without thought or pleasure, can become the straw that broke the camel’s back where you throw the packet down in disgust and go start facing all the chores that await.  The Dessert Years.

In another year and a half, Petit Prince will be in school full time with the other two.  I will have long days stretching before me where I can catch up on the mess before the kids come and make another one.  I’ll be able to think and prepare so that when the kids come home I can actually plan activities in advance to do with them (I have been known to do that).  I’ll be able to wander around the garden, breathing in the fresh air and pulling up stray weeds.  I can get my hair done, get a massage, cook healthy snacks, go out for lunch.  I can fill my head with life where pleasure is so mixed with duty that I don’t need to escape from anything.  In another year and a half, I will have exited “The Dessert Years” and will have marched on to greater things.

That is, if I can still get through the door.

* This post originally appeared in my former blog, Perfect Welcome, and may contain some modifications or discrepancies in the names or comments.

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