On the Prairie

Unlike most adults my age (or, I should say, most adults my age from Minnesota), I never watched Little House on the Prairie growing up. Never fully read the books, either, despite a series of half-hearted, momentary attempts at doing so. While Laura was racing down a Wisconsin hill to help Pa collect buckets of water from the nearby creek, my days were measured by lazy walks to the swimming pool of our California apartment, and the echo of the ocean's receding tide from my best friend's open bedroom window. Frankly, I couldn't relate. Birthing a calf? Buried in snowdrifts during a harsh and unforgiving winter? Log cabin full of malaria? Boooo-ring.

After Lili was born, I began to think--for the first time--about life "on the prairie" (it doesn't help that Mama works at a history museum, and, well, let's just say that she now has to verbally edit the archival material she brings home). When my daughter is sick (as she is now, with pneumonia), we enjoy the luxury of fever reducers, the expertise of trained and caring doctors, and, when necessary, the relief of antibiotics. Waking in the middle of the night to the sound of Lili coughing, and then barking, and then choking as her body tries to dispel this infection, rubbing her back and fetching water in an attempt to alleviate even a small amount of her discomfort, I think of the prairie and the decades, the generations, of mothers who came before me. Women who mothered without the benefit of Motrin. Without the benefit of hospitals. Without the knowledge that, yes, their child would survive this. Did these mothers love their children any less than I love my child? Would they, also, have not instinctively traded their own good health for even a momentary guarantee of safety for their son or daughter? Yet there they were...and here I am. And then I think about mothers across the world even today, mothers who struggle daily, through no fault of their own, to feed and nourish their children, to protect and heal their children. And how easily I could have been her, and she could have been me. A flip of a coin. A spin of a wheel. A chance encounter. And yet...there they are...and here I am.

I am so grateful. The coughing has subsided, the dull eyes have begun to brighten, and pretend play has resumed (much to Panda Mae's terrified dismay). In the daily grind of raising a child, it's easy to become overwhelmed by the chaos, bogged down by the seemingly endless details. But, always, there remains so much to be thankful for. Warm blankets. A healing body. And every day, a new beginning.