Mommy has a Migraine

Ever since I was a kid in middle school, I've suffered from migraines. And this afternoon, guess what? Migraine. I think, for me, the worst part about a migraine is that suddenly, without warning, your plans change. No matter where you were going, or what you were doing, the migraine means you must lie down and stay in a darkened room. You must stay very still and wait for the wave of pain to wash over you, then slowly recede again. I have a whole arsenal of things to help me get rid of migraines. I use heating pads, and a variety of over-the-counter meds. I even have a mask, suitable for a superhero, for over my eyes that I can either heat or cool, depending on what feels best at the time.

When Distracted Mommies get migraines, they still have to be the mommy. In fact, sometimes that's the part that's worse than the migraine itself. Because the migraine can be even more demanding than a three-year-old, if that's possible. And sometimes you have to juggle both, first answering to the demands of the child, all the while hoping the demands of the migraine don't overpower you completely.

All four of my children know that Mommy sometimes needs to lie down until the jackhammering in her head subsides. And as bad as those times have been, I also have some very fond memories of the sweet, care-taking side that emerges in my children.

When my oldest son was 2, he was worried about me one day as I lay in my bed, a washcloth over my eyes, writhing in pain from a migraine. I tried to reassure him that I would be okay, but even at his young age, he wanted to do something to make things better. He toddled off and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he reappeared. Softly, he approached my bed. "Here," he said. In his hands, were two pieces of bread, carefully stacked and placed on a napkin. "It's a cheese sandwich," he told me, and I took it from him gratefully. When I peeked inside the bread, there was nothing between the slices.

"I couldn't reach the cheese," he explained, a little embarrassed at the limitations put on him by his height—or lack thereof. But I thanked him profusely anyway. It remains, to this day, the best cheese sandwich I've ever eaten. What it lacked in cheese, it made up for in compassion and sheer effort.

My other children have done the same: each migraine brings the little padding sound of feet approaching my bed, bringing treats of comfort: some crackers, a cup of tea, a handful of M&Ms, the candy coating sweating from the warmth of chubby little hands. They have no idea how these acts of kindnesses are the best medicine of all.

This afternoon, my daughter is treating my migraine with the delicious concoctions she's making in her make-believe kitchen. As I wait for my migraine medication to take effect, she shuttles back and forth between my bed and her room, where she retrieves cups and saucers filled with imaginary juice, or bowls filled with invisible noodles or chicken or pizza. She presents each new treat with a flourish. I sip some of her soup, where I scoop out each spoonful with a Superman action figure. Next she brings me a bright yellow bowl:

 "Why is Snow White in the bowl?" I ask, pointing to her little doll with the fluffy yellow skirt. She furrows her brow. "It's not Snow White," she says in that familiar defiant tone of voice I've come accustomed to since her 3rd birthday. "It's pudding!!"

"Ohhh," I say, slurping up my Snow White pudding appreciatively. "This pudding is delicious."

And it is. Despite the jackhammer in my head, we are having a moment that I will treasure forever. When I sometimes feel as though motherhood is an neverending series of non-reciprocal giving, I'm reminded that my children have the capacity to give something well beyond anything tangible. And it's right there, and all I need to do is to accept it. And isn't it strange that sometimes we need to be knocked off our course, or handed a little bit of pain and suffering, before we start noticing the beautiful roses growing right there in front of our eyes, among the thorns?