Greta is sick again. I'm working on acceptance.
The irony is that I had drafted a post a couple of days ago about how I've been better at floating through the days, instead of bucking the current at every turn.
I never published it.
It's far easier to find acceptance when things are chugging along nicely; it's a whole different story when life feels like death by a thousand paper cuts.
We patiently schlep to the doctor's office, get a diagnosis of strep or not, and then schlep back home to try a new round of antibiotics, or not, and weather the symptoms.
I know the next step will be conversations about going to see an Ear, Nose and Throat doctor; there will be mumblings about a tonsillectomy. She caught wind of this somehow, and every time she goes to the doctor she is nearly paralyzed with fear.
"Will they make me have surgery, Mom?" she asks, her eyes wide and her chin quivering.
I keep a brave face on, show her my serene it's-going-to-be-just-fine face, but inside I'm starting to crumble. The pool of calm and acceptance I've been nurturing is getting choppy. The worry is starting to shine through the cracks.
I know it could be so much worse. Most days I have a good perspective on things. Some days - like today - I don't.
I woke up this morning to no electricity. Again. Our power keeps going out, for reasons I don't fully understand, and I slumped downstairs to my dark, cold kitchen and glared at my useless coffee maker. Greta padded into the kitchen holding her head, "It hurts so MUCH, Momma," she said.
I checked my cell phone; it was almost out of power. I called the doctor's office with the remaining juice, only to find out their power was out, too.
Greta curled up on the couch, holding her head. I gave her some Motrin and checked her throat. Her tonsils are so swollen and red they are touching.
It brings me back to my own childhood; winter afternoons spent at the doctor's office, conversations about whether or not to have surgery, months on end with a clogged nose and a thick voice.
I grew out of it, eventually. I never did have to have the surgery. I'm hoping the same will be true for Greta.
But this morning, in the dark, cold, silent house, I just didn't want to be the mother anymore. I was overwhelmed with worry and frustration. And irritation, which brought a stab of guilt.
I'm so tired of it all, the see-sawing emotions, the inconvenience, the uncertainty about when to go to the doctor and what to do.
What came next was the power came back on, Greta has a doctor's appointment for early this afternoon, and a friend called to invite Finn over for a play date.
We soldier on.