Recovery discovery

I finally reached my threshold of clutter. My feng shui was way off, and I needed to get my apartment into a manageable order of some sort. Toys, living room furniture, and a giant messy desk competed for space in the area designated as the dining room. Meanwhile, a large majestic dining room table sat lonely in the cavernous space of the living room.

On Saturday night, I entered the rare but familiar Cleaning Frenzy Zone. Once Shabbat ended, I was busy rearranging furniture, flipping the living room and dining room, creating more space for kids' toys, dusting inches of accumulation off of tables and shelves, and finally arranging everything in a way that just made more sense. By the time I got to bed, it was one in the morning.

The baby woke up the next morning saying, "Dat doesn't go theya!"

I consider myself to be a recovering organizational basket case. As the resource lady at my kids' school would describe it, I have some serious executive function issues. In other words, ideas have a tough time translating to coherent action. Information processing gets bottlenecked somewhere before "output". But occasionally, the blockage is cleared, and I have a lucid moment of actually getting something done. Awareness is the first step in my recovery.

But the road to recovery is pocked with potholes.

It took my son more than a week to get over his nasty virus; and after two fever-free days, it seemed to return. He couldn't even look at a chewable tablet without retching, and I couldn't bear to jab a thermometer under his tongue one more time. Enough was enough. Even our improved feng shui couldn't cheer him up.

By Sunday morning, my son seemed to be improving. He finally had a couple of fever-free days. And we were anxiously anticipating a welcome visit from a dear cousin.

Sadly, we rarely get to see her. She's in the middle of planning a wedding, training for a fundraising climb of Mt. Kilimanjaro, preparing a trip to Israel with her father, and juggling a high pressure job. I have no real excuse, but I have three kids. Needless to say, our paths rarely cross, but we managed to nab her for several blissful hours of arts and crafts and much needed conversation on Sunday afternoon. My daughter had a friend over when our cousin showed up with a bag full of scrapbooking paper, ribbons, and stickers she no longer needed.

My daughters were in girly-girl heaven. They drew lovely pictures of princesses and their cousin,

They created collages of paper, ribbon, stickers, and shiny things,

Even the baby lost herself in cutting and pasting

The girls couldn't have dreamed up a better afternoon. My cousin and I couldn't have dreamed up a more frightening one. "No, baby! Let go of the enormous sharp scissors!" My cousin called out on more than one occasion as I tried to gently pry the weapon from my baby's fierce grip.

No, Sweetheart! I gasped. Get off of my couch with that glue! While the girls lost themselves in artistic reverie, my cousin and I tried to catch up with each other's hectic lives. The baby, hell bent on destruction, made this a greater challenge than we had anticipated. Descriptions of wedding dresses were frequently interrupted by one of us lunging at the baby armed with writing utensils.

The end product made it all worthwhile: irrepressible glee.

Unfortunately, my son's fever came back that afternoon, and the artsy thing didn't do it for him. He curled up on the couch, watching the proceedings with mournful eyes. My heart sunk, mistakenly thinking the virus a thing of the past.

On Monday morning, my son's fever was gone again so I sent him to school. By the time he got home, the hot forehead was back like a bad dream. I took him back to the doctor on Tuesday. The doctor examined him yet again, and concluded that it was the virus' last dying gasp. We sent him to school once more.

A couple of days later, he had his first soccer practice of the season. My son practically skipped to the soccer fields. I recognized that tall, skinny beanpole chasing after a shiny ball. It was my son again - no raging fevers, pale skin, or mournful eyes. Just a regular goofy kid chasing down a soccer ball. Life as it should be.

Some recoveries occur as a matter of course. My feverish son needed little more than love, attention, and time, to be himself again. Other kinds of recovery require a great deal more intention, preparation, and execution. My recovery from disorganization and discombobulation will take more effort, and may never come to fruition. Somehow, in fits and bursts, I manage to get things done, and just in time!

Granma Shushin and my dad are coming to visit us this week, and the timing couldn't be better. The apartment is clean, their grandson is healthy (hamza, hamza), and I am, as always, trying to recover my long lost sanity. At least, for now.