This essay is six years old, but it's been on my mind lately, as the Muppets release their new movie. Right now, I'm thinking a lot about how and when I first fell in love with the Muppets.
So far this winter (where's wood to knock on?), I haven't been really sick yet. A friend has antibiotic resistant strep: there but for the grace of God go I.
One thing on my bucket list is a visit to Egypt. I've heard horror stories about infections from ancient mold in tombs shutting down people's lungs, and my kids frequently point out that West Nile virus is named after the Nile River. "You cannot go to Egypt!" they say. "You'll get sick!"
My husband is more pragmatic. "We're not going anywhere where we might be shot just for being American."
Mark my words, one day, I'm buying a plane ticket to Egypt.
Until then, I'll be glad that the Muppets are back in movie theaters.
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I have a cold again. Sometimes it feels as if I'm always sick. So many of my childhood memories involve lying on the couch in my pajamas, swaddled in a comforter. When you're looking at life through a fog of misery, it's hard to remember feeling any different. The memories that flood your brain are of fevers, headaches, sore throats, sleepless nights. I had a lot of those as a child.
Depending on what was wrong with me at the time, I'd have a tissue box and a wastebasket for my tissues, or I'd have a garbage bag lined trash can next to my head to throw up in. I might have a continually refilled glass of water, or my throat might hurt too much for me to swallow.
I came down with strep throat or tonsillitis at least once each winter. My stomach has always been fairly temperamental, and I'd get the stomach flu at the drop of a hat. Then there were all of the colds and flu that are inevitable. Still, it took me years to realize that I was sicklier than most people. If the schools would have had the attendance policy then that they had when my kids were attending, I would have failed several grades.
My dad retired when I was only a few months old. Both my parents were home with us until I was about five or six. Then, my mom took a part time office job, and worked from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. That left my dad in charge of me during the mornings when I was home sick.
Dad worried like crazy, but he wasn't very hands-on with children, especially sick ones. Even when I was very small, I could predict how the morning would go. After my mom left for work, my dad would pace around the living room for about fifteen minutes. Then, he'd say, "You OK?"
"Yeah, I'm OK," I would say.
"Well, I'm gonna go down to the Block S for a cup of coffee," he'd say. The Block S was a coffee shop type of business downtown. He'd meet up with his buddies there every morning, and they'd hang out, talk and drink coffee for about an hour or two. It was a very predictable routine.
"OK," I'd say, and off he'd go.
Even as a small child, I was not a boundary pusher. I wasn't going to use the time to play with matches, raid the wine or play with the guns. I'm a rule follower by nature. I never even left the couch unless I had to use the bathroom. No one ever worried about me being by myself while my dad was at the Block S, including me.
My oldest daughter always felt extraordinarily anxious if she was left alone in the house. She even felt anxious when she was babysitting her siblings. I never really understood that. She's home from college now, and if she gets home from work while the rest of us are out, it upsets her. When we came home recently, she ran from the other room to greet us crying, "People! People! Yay!" That's an improvement from her usual angry greeting of, "Where have you been? I've been here all by myself!"
As a child alone, I didn't worry about robbers breaking in, or kidnappers, or natural disasters, or fire, or anything else threatening my safety. I know now that such fears are very common. The only reason I could think of to worry was if I felt that my health would take a precipitous turn for the worse, and someone would have to be home to rush me to the doctor. Since such a thing had never happened and I felt sure it wouldn't, I felt completely comfortable being on my own.
My oldest child, one of my closest girlfriends, even my husband have always been the kind of people who equate being alone with being abandoned, unloved and in peril. I have always found it to be totally relaxing. It was the one time I knew I could relax completely. I didn't have to listen, talk, pay attention, interact or do anything else that took energy. I could just exhale and be.
I read and I watched TV – mostly game shows, never soaps. Since this was in the days before remotes, I often fell asleep with it on. That would be my day – watch, sleep, watch some more, sleep some more. I'd eat something if my stomach could take it; my mom made me lots of Jello. I'd spend all day or at least most of it lying on the couch. Then, at night, I'd go across the house and lie in bed. The thing I find most frustrating about being sick as an adult is that you have to keep up some level of functioning. You can't just sleep all day and all night. I'm sure I'd get better much faster now if I could sleep more.
I'm glad I didn't get hooked on soaps. Game shows may not be highbrow, but at least I was thinking.
I was never very good at "The Price is Right." Where do they get those prices from, anyway? I was very good at quiz shows, especially when the questions dealt with empirical data – what year did Napoleon suffer defeat at Waterloo, that sort of thing. "Family Feud" was a little iffier. Where exactly did they take their survey? Sometimes it seemed to be in a redneck bar after a few drinks, and sometimes in a corporate meeting room. Once I got a feel for what the "survey says," I could do OK.
After he got home from the Block S, my dad delighted in watching me play along with the quiz shows. I'd say my answer out loud, and even in the early elementary grades I often did better than the contestants. This pleased my dad immensely. "You should go on here!" he'd say. He thought I was some sort of amazing prodigy.
I thought it was because it had been too long since the adults went to school. They'd often be asking about things we had just discussed in school. I'd heard it weeks ago; the adults had heard it decades ago. My own kids often surprise me the same way. Just today, my seven year old saw a picture of a box kite. "Box kite! The Chinese invented those!" she informed me. How many adults would know that off the top of their heads?
Too, I didn't have a studio audience staring at me, bright lights in my face, and the pressure of millions of people watching. "I wouldn't do as well if I were there," I told my dad. He was sure I would. I disagreed, but usually silently, so he could be happy. One thing about my dad that you learned early – it didn't really pay to argue with him.
I loved reruns of the old Daniel Boone TV show. When I was about eleven, I watched the same actor, Fess Parker, play Davy Crockett in a movie aired while I was fighting strep throat again. That night I woke my mother in the middle of the night and informed her with wild eyes that, "The Indians want me to tell them where the gold is!"
She answered mildly, "Well, don't tell them, dear." Reassured, I rolled over and went back to sleep, saying, "OK." God bless my mom – she was always willing to sleep with us when we were sick, despite inconveniences like cold feet stuck under her for warmth, and feverish, delusional daughters waking her up to rant about "the gold." When I'd get thick, gluey phlegm closing off my throat, she'd rock me in the rocking chair in the dark. I didn't want conversation or entertainment; I just wanted comfort.
When I was eight years old, I discovered the Muppets. I came across Sesame Street on TV, and was delighted, even though I was years older than their intended audience. It was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with all things created by Jim Henson.
I was too old for the instruction on letter sounds and such, but I was captivated by the wittiness of the segments. Since I had a much older brother and sister and had listened to their music, when I heard a Muppet sing, "Letter B," I knew it was derived from a Beatles hit. It was charming and funny, and I felt very much "in" on a secret, since I was sure that preschoolers wouldn't know the original. Anyone who's watched any Sesame Street knows how often those moments crop up.
The musical segments were probably my favorites, but close behind came Kermit the Frog's roving reporter. As he'd show up with his news cap and microphone to report on fairy tales, something always went wrong, and he'd come unraveled. The poor hapless diner always ending up at a table served by Grover had my sympathy. And I felt for Big Bird back in the days when he was the only one of the gang to see Mr. Snuffleupagus.
The idealized neighborhood really appealed to me as well. I've always thought that reality should look something like that – everyone knew and liked everyone else (well, OK, everyone except Oscar), no one cared how old you were or what color or what species. Nobody cared about how much money you had, or what you wore or anything else superficial. And occasionally, everyone would break into a beautifully choreographed song and dance number. It was grand.
I kept watching Sesame Street whenever I was home sick, long after I left elementary school behind. I discovered I was not alone when I was a sophomore in high school. Karen, one of my best friends, was in the school choir, and let me in on one of their traditions. It was tradition in the choir for any sick member to watch Sesame Street and report back to the other members about what had happened that day. Heaven forbid that someone should forget – they'd face the collective wrath of teens denied.
When the Muppets branched out into The Muppet Show on TV and The Muppet Movie in theaters, I insisted on not only watching, but making sure my family and friends watched. Years later, it was a total delight to me to be able to introduce my kids to the Muppets.
When my kids are sick, I let them swaddle on the couch in front of the TV. Now, though, we have videos for them to watch if they don't like what's on our dozens of channels of satellite TV. It's a far cry from the remoteless days of channels 2, 4 and 8. Often they want to do something else, like sit surrounded by a stack of books or play on the computer. I insist on naps, too, since I believe firmly in the restorative power of sleep. Plus, for a little while, the discomfort goes away – how magical is that?
Not too long ago, I was home sick while the rest of the family went to church. I watched a wonderful biography of Milton Hershey, the chocolate king. Then I still had two hours to sleep before everyone else came home. It gave me a bit of that old comfort feeling of being able to check out of the real world for awhile and concentrate on existing horizontally – just me in my pjs, the couch and the TV. I'll bet I healed faster than I do otherwise. I'm not one to wish away my adulthood, pining for a childhood long gone, but boy, I do miss the ability to sleep through my sick days.
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