Throwback Thursday - The Bell

Taking care of Knox this week has been extra hectic. It's so hard to see an 8-and-a-half-month-old baby struggling to breathe. He's cried and cried, letting me know that something is definitely messed up in his life right now, but without the ability to tell me what. We've been to the pediatrician's office twice and the emergency room once. We've had four sleepless nights in a row, and seeing how it just took me an hour and forty-five minutes to put him to sleep in order for me to finally write this blog post, I'm assuming the fifth sleepless night is upon us.

That said, this is not a pity party for me or for my son. It's a throwback to sick days at Mamaw & Papaw's house. Those were so glorious (I mean, aside from the strep, flu, cold, pox, or whatever). With Mom and Dad both working, they couldn't always take off when we woke up with a fever or just the ickies; and on those days, we were driven to town.

Mamaw & Papaw have a front bedroom that my husband and I now refer to as Hotel Fryman; but back in the day, it was where my brother, sister, and I went to be sick and doted on. Being sick at my grandparents' house was way more bossome than being sick at home. They had cable television for starters. And Mamaw always sent Papaw down to Ken's Supermarket to buy us whatever food (or popsicles) we "needed." But the best thing of all was: the bell.  (pronounced "bail")

The bell is old. It's small. It's of the brass variety and tarnished just so out of years of use. The handle is actually not tightly adjusted to the bell itself so it already feels like it could break right when you pick it up. But it rings. And when it does, the grandparents come a runnin'. Might be a little rinky dink, but shoo-wee! It does the job.

When you're sick at Mamaw & Papaw's house, the only thing you're responsible for doing for yourself is using the bathroom. And I swear that if Mamaw had catheters, she wouldn't even make us do that. Sick days at their house meant kicking back in a queen sized bed, propped up on loads of pillows, talking on the telephone mounted on the wall next to the headboard, watching My So Called Life (but changing it back to Saved By The Bell if anyone approached), and eating chicken noodle soup.

And if I needed anything - ANYTHING - I'd just ring that bell. Lights off? Ring the bell. Another cover? Ring the bell. Someone to scratch my back? Play with my hair? Bring me the remote control cause I kicked it off onto the floor while I napped? Just ring the bell.

As I head into sixth day of caregiving for my infant son - - a child who has learned to reach for me and does so pitifully with both arms in the air and lips in a pout, whose cheeks are covered in tears as he says, "Mmmmmama," who can't wipe his own nose, feed himself, use a toilet, or put himself to sleep - - I realize that Karma has come to pay me a visit... and she's a ringin' that bell.

Who took care of you when you were sick? Who takes care of you now? And I'm only responsible for this kid til he's 18, right?

(Note: the last time I rang the bell at Mamaw's, I was 29 years old with strep throat.)