Daffies

When we go to the store, I employ a system of bribery to get the grocery shopping done without losing my smile.  It's called: if you are good we'll get a treat.  Original, I know.  Last time the girls got a bonus for super good behavior we didn't get candy, or so tiny icecreams, or a movie from "the red box".  We got six flaky, sprouting brown bulbs that looked like loser onions but promised to magically turn into paperwhites; white baby daffies Curly Sue has every expectation of being pink in spite of everything she's been told.  And how can I resist that kind of optimism? 
We took them home.  We did the classic family home evening about faith.  And planted them in a red, rectangular flower box brought in off the balcony.  I'm usually a houseplant killer, but not these babies.  They are getting down-right nurtured.  They play in the girls windowsill during the day, and sleep on their dresser at night.  And everytime we water them Lil' Blue Lou gently tucks them back snug in the dirt with a whispered "Pah, pah, pah, nigh-nigh-ee".  Because apparently, everything that we're not currently holding in our hands is night-night.
Now, zoom out for a minute so you can catch the gist of the rest of our January: the Month of Ill.  We have a bad relationship with her, a grudge that took root four years ago and has not been forgiven. January is our nemesis.  She hates us in a sneaky, underhanded way.  She's like a bad cop, filing all the right paperwork but threatening capital punishment over parking violations in dark interrogation rooms with no lawyer.  She gets us sweating over nothing and we just can't trust 'er.  I can't prove it, but it's definitely her fault we've been so. dang. sick.  all year.  All twenty-four days of it.  I swear, there have been 80 gajillion vomiting episodes this month. It happens every year.  January is death.  Then February brings my birthday and Valentines and sometimes even a crocus or two.  February is the good cop.  The one that makes you feel like everything's gonna be okay, no matter what Officer Hellbound just told you.  She promises to let you live.  And she tells the truth.
But in the meantime, we've seen January in top form this week.  Louie has been stealth vomiting and moving along with her life like nothing happened until she drops amazing bowel movements straight through her diaper and clothes to the carpet.  And by amazing, I mean awesome like a stinky green flash flood.  She's been trying to keep singing her song like my usual happy little blue bird but she's just not there.  And poor Sue, she's been living on Motrin and Tylenol in an effort to beat down that raging fever of hers for good.  It's been this or that since January One.  They seem to just keep swapping symptoms.  The Daddy got his own taste of it today.  And I'm about toast. 
Zoom back in and I'll tell you we went to the doctor, who told us it was "just another viral infection".  And I felt oddly comforted by that.  We are to hang in there.  Keep fighting a good fight.  And we have.  Our house is a world of thermometers, pedialyte, laundry, clorox wipes, fussing ladies, popsicles, spinning heads, exhausted parents, playdough, crayons, and that blessed cartoon monkey Curious George.
And daffies.  Through it all we water them everyday.  Leave them to play in the sunshine.  And give them their pat, pat, pats.  They've been thriving.  Today I noticed how deep the green of their little shoots is.  The very color of life in a world that's turning a ghostly puce.  I think the contrast of that vivacious green peeking out through a rich brown with a red border is so pleasant.  It made me a promise today about survival, about being sunny in the middle of sludgy muck.  It helped me keep my eyes open.  And I love those green peepers for it.  So I think we'll plant paperwhite daffies every January from now on.  See if we can't soften the bad cop up a bit.