I eat my Wheaties

Coming out of the coma.

sick Beckam asleep

My family has been sick for 2 weeks.
Between the five of us, we have produced gallons of mucus.
It's gross.
I am the soldier posted in the center with rubber gloves, Kleenex and a beaker full of Tylenol.
Actually I feel nothing like a soldier.
There is no glory in my duty.
I wake up every time someone cries.
I hold my children and coo to them, 'It will be alright.'
Even though, they will have to sacrifice their own comfort for love one day.
The truth is, love demands I never arrive in the place where everything is alright.
My own body just has to go and go and go.

sick Beckam awake

On occasion Grace holds me.
For a brief moment after a run.
Or as I'm driving home into the shift of sky from turquoise to twilight.
She eases me into a hot bath after 10 p.m.
After everyone is tucked into footy-jammies and prayers are said.
She tells me,
"You are doing it.
And you are doing it well.
Don't think about tomorrow.
Because you won't feel this way in the morning."




What a shift from Lydia's hissing.
I rarely hear her anymore.
Yesterday I put on my bikini and stood in front of the mirror.
I hold bobble-head Beckam in my arms.
"What do ya think?"  I ask us.
I am trying to decide if my body is good enough for a weekend in Moab.
I pivot on ball of foot.

I woke up from my sick-nap to find this.
kitchen table plastered with stickers.
There was also a toilet clogged with toilet paper.
And 4 packets of sweet 'n' low opened and eaten.

Look over my shoulder.
Suck in my stomach.  Stick it out.  Try to stand normal.
Imagine myself playing with kids at the pool.
Beckam drools into my cleavage.
I laugh.  I see myself smile in the mirror.
This is what I want to do.
Smile and laugh with my kids...with my husband.

Not perfect.
But it'll do.
I can do what I need to do in this body.
I am healthy.
An eating disordered brain hears healthy, and winces.
Healthy is not a good word.
But to me - today - it is.

I am amazed at my own resilience.