To commiserate the last day of spring break, Johnny got the chickenpox.  He woke up screaming in the middle of the night, his forehead on fire and eyes plastered shut with green gunk.  It was terrifying to see him like that.  We rocked him, tried to wipe his eyes, gave him Infant Advil, some water, and a banana.

“Ride it out,” said our pediatrician, as the red bumps continued to spread across his body and face.

After several days of this, I finally let myself cry, while Johnny lay asleep in his crib.  I thought about how hard this was—to experience my little boy experiencing pain—it made me feel raw inside and guilty and powerless.

“He’ll be okay,” Dave said, always able to see the bright side.  “Babies get sick,” he added, which was the truth.  Not my baby, I wanted to say, because secretly I thought a good mother would never let this happen.

The next day Johnny was in good spirits.  He rummaged around the kitchen cabinets for stray Tupperware and chased our cat, occasionally stopping to pinch at his skin.  I took him outside for some fresh air and he pushed his little blue wagon down the block, searching for interesting objects.  He came across a small rock, grabbing at it with such glee you would think he had just stumped upon a rare crystal.  He held it up to the sky for a few seconds, admiring the cracks and specks of dirt.  Then as if to say, life is good mama, he looked at me through crusty eyes and smiled.

Johnny on day 5 of the chickenpox, having a good laugh with our cat, Tuna Melt.

As kids, the best Christmas was when Santa brought us Nintendo with Power Pad Olympics, which involved sprinting in place and leaping over on-screen hurdles. This meant my older sister would compete against various animals while I refreshed her water glass and acted as cheering squad until she finally beat Cheetah, bringing much honor to our household.

One year my dad insisted that Santa would like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I thought this a childish taste for a man capable of flying around the world in a single night. But I prepared the meal anyway, using the slices from the middle of the loaf and carefully setting out the finished product in the middle of the coffee table where he couldn’t miss it.

I believe I was about five years old when my aunt said to me one Christmas, “Would you like it if Snowball carried you around like that?” She was referring to the way I was holding our toy poodle on my hip like a purse. I was speechless and ashamed—it had not occurred to me that perhaps the dog, who I considered my best friend at the time, did not enjoy the position. This was a very good Christmas lesson.

No matter what, every Christmas I could count on one thing—our great Uncle Dick arriving with neon green suede shoes, proudly carrying a bag of apple pie slices from Burger King. When it was Present Time, he grinned, large warts poking out around his eyes and nose, and handed out wallets to all of the kids. Each wallet contained a five dollar bill and was purchased at what Uncle Dick always referred to as his “special store.” I liked how the “special store” never failed to give my new wallet a soft, worn in feel and a slight cigarette smell.

This Christmas Uncle Dick is in his nineties and us kids have grown and scattered, some with kids of our own. It’s funny how time passes and the holidays seem to make me more aware of this. Maybe that’s why the month of December sometimes makes my skin itch and feel like the rain is never going to end. But it does. And Johnny makes me laugh with a new dance wiggle and Dave kisses me.

Me and Johnny with his new Christmas toy—thanks papa mike!