The At-Least Game

4:35 am.  A hoarse whimper resonates through the monitor.  I don’t open my eyes.  “Maybe she’ll go back to sleep,” I hope.  Another cry, a little stronger.  I roll out of bed, and my feet hit the floor.  They ache.  They almost feel swollen, like I’d hiked Mt. Timpanogus the day before. 

I walk to the baby’s room, and the dim night light casts a blue glow. Sally is standing, holding on to the crib rail.  She sees me and her face wrinkles as she lets out another hoarse wail.  The poor thing.  I scoop her up in my arms and she buries her face in my shoulder, smearing boogers across my T-shirt. “At least her fever is still down,” I think.

It started nine days ago. Monday morning.  I was visiting with a couple of friends as our kids scattered toys in the living room.  I happened to mention how happy I was that my family was healthy for Christmas this year.  Three hours later a child was running a fever.

             

            I settle into my recliner and try to snuggle my baby.  She pushes away.  Her little nose runs like a leaky faucet, so I get up and walk across the room, grab a tissue, and wipe.  I pick up the box of tissues and sit back down in the recliner.  I hide the tissues between my hip and the armrest, but Sally has already spotted them.  She reaches down and grabs a handful of tissues.  She reaches with her other hand and grabs another handful.  At least she is happy.

By Friday, I was nursing four feverish children round the clock.  The doctor analyzed the symptoms and declared we probably had the flu. The flu, as in Influenza.  The illness we hoped our flu-shots would prevent. At least Andrew is able to take a few days off to help me care for the sick kids.  

            That evening, as Andrew and I were getting ready for bed, we heard a seal barking. The familiar croup sound came from the girls’ room.  I gathered up my little baby-seal-girl, gave her the next dose of ibuprofen, and prepared to take her outside to let the frigid air work its magic.  Just then, we heard another faint crying.  Andrew went to investigate, and came back holding a frightened little boy, who sobbed in between wheezing and barking.

            “Should I go get a couple of chairs?” Andrew inquired.

            “Sure!” I responded.  “We’ll make it a party!”

            A few minutes later, the four of us sat bundled up on the front porch, snuggled in blankets, watching the stars.  “If we have to be up with croup tonight,” I thought, “At least we can be up together.”

            It’s a game I learned several months back. I saw it on a Facebook post:  some-number-of-things-I-learned-when… This particular suggestion stuck with me, and I tried it.  I call it the “At Least” game.  When I find myself in a frustrating situation, I say “At least…” and think of something for which I can be grateful at that moment. It helps me focus on the positive. It helps me stay calm through challenging tasks. After all, it could always be worse, right?

            It is now 5:20.  Sally has lost interest in the tissues.  Her drippy nose has settled down for the time being, and she sucks her two middle fingers as she rests her little head on my chest.  I slowly stand up, clutching my little daughter, and quietly carry her back to her room.  The humidifier hums softly as I place her in her crib and tuck the blankets around her.

            I tiptoe back to my own room and slip beneath the covers.  “At least she didn’t stay up very long,” I think. And within seconds, I am sound asleep.