Here comes the sun, na na na na

I tried not to let it spill over onto the blog last week, but I was quite literally having a very bad time. My children have been fighting sickness for more than 2 weeks now, Steve was out of town and, if I was complaining, the list of “things to pity me about” would be too lengthy to record.

Well, maybe I’ll share just one. My boys go to a weekly winter baseball workout. When it was over last week, we climbed into the car. We were taking one of J.J.’s buddies home too, so they all squeezed into the back seat together. It was after I turned the key in the ignition when I heard J.J. say, “Mom, my knee hurts.”

Without outlining all the gory details, I found myself sitting in the orthopedist’s office the next morning at 9:00am – this after I had dropped my feverish daughter off with my mother and drugged my oldest so that he could make it to school.

I sat in the waiting room waiting for the results of J.J.’s x-ray, circumstantially overwhelmed, when I happened to glance at the magazine rack. It contained an old National Geographic with a cover story warning us about the dangers of light pollution, and I learned that we totally have too many lights. I scanned the story and was beginning to worry about where the stars have gone, when a song from my youth began to play through the office speakers. It starts:

“Little ditty about Jack and Diane
Two American kids growin’ up in the heartland…”

It’s a song, by John Cougar Mellencamp, that encourages the listener to remember her younger (more carefree) days a little too fondly, especially when she feels besieged by stressors, and then the chorus hits her with:

“Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone. Say, oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone. Rock on.”

I felt like crying – no, sobbing – right then and there. The chair I was sitting in was a stiff-backed stain-resistant gray, the Berber carpet was a darker gray and the walls were a mottled gray. The prints on the walls were the classic black and white Ansel Adams winter scenes and I was suddenly short on oxygen and desperate for color. I needed anything to help me warm up, to help me breathe.

But John kept on singing, “the thrill of living is gone…”

Then my son leaned in close, put his head against me and started to cry because of his sore knee. We were both terribly needy and suddenly, in our togetherness, I felt a great pang of orange. It was so bright, it was like neon.

Despite all the swelling, J.J.’s knee was only sprained. The next day, Mia’s antibiotic started to work on her strep throat, Noah made it to school again and Steve flew home.

On Saturday, I decided to stand for a long time in my driveway and just face the sun. I thanked God for making orange and yellow - for "let there be light." Rock on.