I taught small children to make bleeding tissue dyed eggs, below, which require thirty seconds of attention and some white glue. Behind my table were the stations for marbleizing eggs, tye-dye eggs, and origami eggs. After the children left the hall, two lovely teenage girls taught me the basics of "pysanky," or Ukrainian egg dying-- just another of those crafts I told myself I would never, never do. But as soon as I tried it, I thought how much my children would love the concentration required. When a teacher told me the mixed dyes last for years, stored in glass jars, I picked up a kit. The bottom photo is a six-year-old's first freehand attempt-- Brendan took a long time, first to blow the eggs, then to make the design in hot wax, then to dye each color, then to melt off the layers of wax. Not being an obsessive person, well, I could become an obsessive person! Once you give yourself over to the insane amount of detail for an egg, it's awfully fun and satisfying. 

spring beauty

I know I said mean things about the Easter bunny and all things cute. And I meant every word. But I am dying eggs with fifty people tomorrow. And making all the spring-ling critters, too. This bunny looks ridiculously real, in person-- the photo does not do him justice. 

composting at home, circa 2000

fevery two

Day six of Madeleine’s fevery bug. Sigh. Two hours from now, we meet with the doctor for strep test and anything else he might recommend.

Our school was cancelled for two days last week, due to this epidemic. Brendan is both perfectly well and utterly miserable, with no available playmates and a house full of either sick or irritable people. Thank goodness for school, today, for him!

Still pacing-with-chores, here, and restless. There are two fevers, Madeleine’s and mine, though mine cannot be measured by a thermometer. I am laundering everything that might harbor a germ. I am boiling water for tea, for me. I have been indoors, by her side, for all but five hours—a shift at the store, plus two glorious hours walking yesterday, skipping church. My fellow Sunday school teachers practically threw me out, fearing I am contagious. I found a sunny rock at a nearby State park, where no one could find me and ask me for anything. The rock radiated warmth into my back until I had to peel off layers of gloves and sweaters. Church is one of my favorite places on earth, but not today—stillness and quiet are better prayers, today.

Scott is trying valiantly to fend off this illness, taking every precautionary measure I throw at him, while his throat gets more sore and his cough more violent each hour he is awake. This is an important week at his workplace, state testing for his students, and all the staff was teasingly told “there will be no sickness, this week.” I sent him to work with a thermos full of boiling tea, elderberry and Throat Coat and Breathe Easy for health, Good Earth for flavor, scattered bits of candied ginger in there and a ginger maple syrup concoction, a dollop of orange juice. I have fed both my sicklings the chicken soup of their choice, this weekend. I have fed them the “immune system” supplements with echinachea and Chinese mushrooms. I have officially Done Everything I Can.

The weather is lovely, warm for a March day in New England, and after the doctor appointment, I may need to bundle Madeleine out in the sun while I sift compost or do some other fretful chores outdoors, to fend off my own fevery cabin fever, after we find out what to do about hers. For now, she made a bed in the bay window and is watching the fishing boats, with a mug of ginger ale and juice. She is not fretting. That’s my job.

sunset, living room window

feverish

One corner of my house looks like I am a techno-dweeb—two computers up and ready, as one has the DSL but the other has my writing. Another corner looks like I am a handicraft dweeb, sewing and felting projects strewn in a pile. The kitchen looks like I am no kind of dweeb, looks forgotten in a pile of piles.

My daughter has a fever, today, and it makes me so skittery that I cut down my coffee to just one cup, fearing nervous overload. These projects around the house are almost like pacing, trying to keep the worry at bay. When my son is sick, he just lays down and sleeps, which is easy. But Madeleine fights sleep, and needs to describe her misery. I have served her popsicles, apple sauce, ginger ale and orange juice. She asked me to come close, and she laid my head on her chest so she could pet my hair and my arm. “I’d put my head on your chest, mama, but I don’t want to sit up.” She’s sleeping now, fever hovering around 103 degrees.

Once, when she was smaller, she spiked a fever of 107 degrees, and I thought the thermometer must be broken. We went to the hospital. They used a different fever-reducer, simply a different kind we’d run out of. Her fever immediately lowered to 103, and she was happy enough to eat their popsicles. But I’m afraid I was permanently damaged, knowing the thermometer goes so high.

I realize I have not been out of the house for forty-eight hours, though the weather is beautiful. I consider asking my neighbor to come sit with her, but if Madeleine woke without me here, she would panic. It’s no fun to be sick. I will stay. And fret.

What I need to look like is a yoga dweeb, though I am not skinny enough to fit the profile of any yoga dweebs I know. I will go stretch, and try to put away dweebish obsession for an hour, while she sleeps. I will tidy up and finish folding the laundry—after I check her forehead, just one more time.