Moms, teach your daughter to hold her husband's hand

My Z-man was hit pretty hard by the infamous flu this year.

While he's had colds, croup and sinus infections over the course of his four years, this was my first time dealing with him through this sort of an illness (fever, aches, chills, dry cough, lethargy).

I've been through it with his sisters, enough times that I know the drill.

I kindly stroke their hair until they bat my hand away, and then I scare them into staying hydrated.

"Drink lots of fluids, or you will have to go live at the hospital!"

My girls want to be left alone when they are sick.  They want to go upstairs to the "big bed" , have the television put on, and be left undisturbed so that they can sleep and sleep and sleep.

So, it was somewhat of a surprise to me that when Z-Man started to go down, he crawled up into my lap and stayed there.

For four days.

Did you read that correctly?  Did you comprehend that I spent most of those four days sitting in a chair, with my baby on top of me, feeling his fiery skin against my cheek?

Don't get me wrong.  Of course I got up to use the restroom, to fetch him drinks, to do things for the girls.  But, on each occasion, I had to slide his sweet little body off of mine and watch him sink pitifully into a heap on the chair.

If I did not return from my errand in the expected amount of time, he would get up in his feverish state and find me, and crawl up onto me wherever I was.

And, as I sat there, stroking his little body, feeling for a change in the fever or in his respiration, growing increasingly irritated by the sound of coughing and repeating the mantra "Mommies don't get sick" as he blew his wind of germs into my face over and over, I started to contemplate how differently the girls handle this sort of illness compared to the boy.

These thoughts took me back to just after Z-man was born.  He turned blue on us, and was rushed to the special care unit of the hospital.  Once there, I was informed that my precious boy had been labeled "min stim".

 Babies who are labeled "min stim" are to be handled as little as possible, and talked to as little as possible.  Their environment is to be kept dark and as quiet as possible...

 This meant that I could not hold and comfort my sick baby.  

All I could do was sit in a chair and look at him, suffering in his little plastic hospital bed-bucket-thingy.

I ached to hold him.

I argued with the nurses.  Surely they had heard of "kangaroo care", why wasn't this something we could try with my son?

The hospital did not budge.

For almost a week, he lay there, handled only by the efficient and capable nurses, who treated my pumped breast milk, the only comfort I could offer my son, as an additional burden, and who  puzzled at my continual presence, just staring at him, as the hours went by.

It is frustrating to think that this little boy, who loves nothing more than the arms of his Momma when he is not well, was deprived that very comfort when he was so small and helpless.

 Then again, perhaps his need for me to hold him now was born out of those lonely hours he spent as an infant - miserable, and uncomforted.

I am tempted to be angry with myself for not ignoring the nurses and scooping him up to my breast.

And so it was that this time around  I sat in the chair, thinking these thoughts, and snuggling my boy,  and kissing him the way I wanted to kiss him in that hospital room, and stroking his scarlet ears, and marveling at his tiny hands that were able to find so much mischief to do.

And then I realized that, when my son becomes a man, he might still seek this sort of comfort in his times of illness.

I realized also that, even when well, my son seeks out physical contact from those he loves with gusto.  Great, big hugs are the order of the day when Daddy returns home from a business trip.  Enthusiastic, loudly planted kisses abound whenever he is having an especially fun day.

And, of my three children, he is the only one who reaches for my hand when we are crossing a parking lot.

He just likes to be touched.  In fact, as much as Z-man likes receiving gifts, I would say that physical touch might be his primary love language.

And I love it!  I love the kisses!  They make my Momma-heart glow.  Daddy loves his "I've missed you so much" hugs.

But...

What is this...

This message that screams at me from our culture...

This message that men are only after "one thing"...

That men only have "one thing" on their minds...

Sometimes I wonder how much physical touch these supposedly sex-crazed husbands are getting outside of the bedroom.

How much is their body just screaming for a tad of reassurance from the most important woman in their lives.

And the horrific thought occurs to me; what if my son marries someone who does not understand his need for touch?

How heartbreaking to think that my poor, sweet baby boy, who is simply affectionate, is going to get the message, as an adult, that he is nothing but a "pig" who "can't keep his hands to himself".

Mommas, I beg you, if you don't already, please hold your spouse's hand in front of your children. Please stroke his neck as he is driving, or link arms in the church pew.

Please oh please hold hands at the farmer's market.  Stroke your hubby's face and tease him when he doesn't shave on the weekend.

Kiss him.  Just because.

Okay, okay, I will take just a minute here to say that husbands ought to do that sort of stuff for wives, too.

But, you see, I have an agenda, here.

 I am secretly hoping that God will have Z-Man's future wife's Momma read this blog, and that she will feel nudged to start modeling this behavior for her daughter.

Hey, at least I'm honest!

I will do my part.  I promise that as Z-man gets older, I will help him to learn boundaries; he will know what kind of touch is appropriate within the parameters of the different relationships in his life.

 I will teach him the importance of the other ways people feel loved, such as acts of service done, or encouraging words.  I will instruct him to consider the other person - to love others in the way that makes them feel most loved.

Lord, I pray for the future spouse of my son.   Give them both wisdom, Lord, to love one another in the way that is most important to each of them.

Praise God, Z-man is back to his normal self..  I am so thankful to see him up and about, swiping my phone, removing  the heat registers, and splashing around in the hot, soapy dishwater of the pan I had soaking on the counter.

Greasy water everywhere!!!!

While we  are up and out of the chair, I still get a bit of morning snuggle-time with him, which I cherish, wondering for how long we will have this little tradition.

It  is time to resume the hustle and bustle of school and housework and basketball and church, but that  time spent in that chair has changed me; it has caused me to pray for my son's marriage, even though he is not quite five-years-old.

Why do I abandon my blogs, journals, and diaries?

Well, it's the new year, and with it comes all the GREAT New-Year traditions like making resolutions, working out to burn off all those holiday calories, and...

Oh.

Wait.

It's FEBRUARY.

Um.

Yes, I have done it again; I have abandoned you, my faithful blog!

I have a long history of abandoning writing projects, starting way, back, once upon a time.

Listen here, kiddies, and I will tell you a story about the "blogs" of the olden-days.

Once upon a time, we had these things called diaries.  They were made of paper (yes, real, physical paper!) bound together in the form of a book (go ask your grandma).  

But, these books weren't for reading. No, these were special books where one would record her innermost thoughts and fears, such as her fifth-grade crush on an eighth-grader named Darrell Potyzka.

These books sometimes even had locks on them, so that you could rest assured that no one could see your secret writings.  

But, what if someone DID break into your diary, or find your not-so-cleverly-hidden key?  As a safeguard, you could write a paragraph in your diary that said something like the following:

If you are reading this right now, I would just like to say that you are the most sneaky and horrible person ever! I will never forgive you if you reveal these secrets!  And you know what??  I will KNOW that you read this diary because of the secret way I put it down the last time!  And then you will be in BIG TROUBLE!

Of course, if you were that paranoid about the idea of someone finding and subsequently reading your diary, it would probably occur to you that once the diary was read, there was no "unreading" it, no matter how severe a penalty you executed upon your sibling...er...the perpetrator.  

Just to be sure your precious secrets did not end up in the wrong hands, you would probably stop putting anything of any real interest in the diary.  

Once you'd determined that truly interesting things did not belong in the diary, and realized that the uninteresting stuff was, well, uninteresting to write about, you would eventually put the diary down for good.

And that, my friends, was the early story of my relationship to "journaling".

In my later attempts at journaling, having come to grips with the idea that journals are meant to be read someday, I faced a new problem; who would this reader be?

After all, doesn't a good writer write for her audience?  What would this someday-reader want to read about?  How much "backstory" about my life will this future admirer of my writing desire?

Also, what about all the misspellings in my journal?  What about my horrid handwriting?  The cumulative effect is that of a drunken (if literate) toddler scrawling gushing poetry about men who would eventually break her heart.

Is THAT how I want to be remembered?

No, I decided, no, it is not.

I finally made my mind up to give up on journaling, which is funny, because it then seemed that a journal was the one thing that came to everyone's mind when considering what I might like to have for my birthday, or for Christmas, or for Groundhog's Day.

I have so many journals with filled first few pages...

*sigh*

So, thanks to the Trekkie-types and their fancy-schmancy interweb, I have now a whole new format in which to screw up.  

Alllllriiiiight!!!!

I was lured out of my journaling retirement with the promise of spell-check and neat-and-tidy font, as well as a long list of "safe" things to write about, such as my darling offspring and the joys of parenting.

And, blogging, in so many ways, IS better than journaling.
And, yet, I am flaking out as a blogger, just like I flaked out on the diaries of my youth.

I think I have started (and subsequently abandoned) a total of four blogs.  However, that number could be low...the early 2000's are kind of a blur.

The problem, this time, I believe, is comparison.  I compare my blog content to those with "big ideas", and "pet issues".  They seem to really have something to say, you know?  Their blogs have a real purpose, a real "vision".  Mine is...well...just Jamie.

I suppose there is some work that could be done on this front.  Perhaps I could narrow my focus, write exclusively about my adventures in homeschooling or some other thing...but I'm not exclusively enthusiastic about those things... 

I'd rather write about that which strikes my fancy...

...but then I know that is not what "readers" want...

...and isn't a blog really for the reader, after all?

I mean, I ask myself..."do I really have any business writing something that I am not sure anyone would ever really care to read?"

And, folks, is how to get from "blogs are great, I should write one" to "why even bother" in three easy steps!

So, here I am, writing the, "hey blog, it's been a while" post that I always swear to myself I won't be writing "this time".

Let's see, together, how long I can hang in there with this one, shall we?