The Cicadas are Coming!

I apologize to the faint of heart.  Here they are, the shells of the massive beasts now chirping in the trees of old neighborhoods, emerging from the ground to shed their crunchy shells before they take Greensboro by storm, or plague.  I was describing them to my son Jonathan today, I said with large eyes, "They are huge."

"No, mom, they're not.  Bugs are not bigger than people."

My four year old is so frank in his observations; it helps me see the world the way it is, not the way my cockamamie brain often interprets it.  This is not to say cicadas aren't huge, I'll have to differ with him on that point, but he does help me put things into perspective. 

Today, as another round of visitors were leaving, I had my first itch to jump out of the hospital bed.  Of course, I have wanted to leave before, but today it was a charged impulse.  It took will power to stay put and not fly out the door on their heels, "Wait, I need a ride out of here!!"  This first itch of insanity tickled me from my back to my front, and for a moment I panicked as I thought about how many more moments like this I will endure.  Luckily I am allowed to use the utilities, so I did, and then I grabbed my computer and channeled my electric energy to fix a glitch.  Computers are my Achilles heel, so fixing the too-small font on my Gmail homepage took about fifteen minutes of research and focus, and relieved my physical tension.  For now. 

I realized that this discipline of staying put is going to be none too different from the discipline it took for me to run cross country races, complete fifteen page papers in college (in Spanish), teach high school, or get through forty one weeks of pregnancy with Jonathan.  The practice of staying still is going to be another lesson in grit, and while I didn't see it coming this is the race I am running.  I remember my coach telling me to look up, just look ahead during those painful sprints, at the end of the track.  

Jonathan asked me today when I am coming home.  I told him honestly, "I don't know bud."  Then, after a moment's pause, he said,

"Oh, I know.  You're coming home when Samuel gets here." 

There is the frank truth.  I am coming home when Samuel gets here.  No matter how many more currents of fire that run through my veins and scream at my physical body to leave this space, I am not coming home until Samuel gets here -- and really, it's not huge.  This problem is not bigger than Samuel and me.  Reminding himself of the endgame seemed to comfort Jonathan, and it comforts me too.  We're running this race, albeit with iron in our boots, with a purpose.  I just must look up, and ahead.