Beangirl was sick at home two days this week. Not much fun anytime, but it is really hard when you have just started at a new school. So we have been trying to keep fun on the agenda. In between long naps on the sofa and the general business of feeling dreadful.
Unfortunately, the business of regular life doesn’t go away when the coughs come on, so our home was still an active spot, and there was still work to be done elsewhere too. Working for a church offers a fair degree of flexibility, but on Wednesday, I had things to do in the office. Blue had a play date with a friend. And the Spouse had class. So Beangirl came with me.
We commuted by underground, cozily sharing a seat. The walk from the station seemed longer than usual, and I wasn’t sure that getting her out of bed was a good idea, after all. But one of the duties I’ve signed up for at the church is a midweek prayer service, and I thought that, before leading one, it was essential to see how they worked. So, the plan was to do a little office work, then head downstairs to worship before bundling back on the train and back home to bed. In the office, I printed off colouring sheets from the i
nternet—the most horrible and best Halloween ones I could find with loads of witchy grotesqueries. Those kept her calmly and happily busy for a while. And I promised her even better ones, if she would be silent during the prayer service.
I was feeling a little strange about the kid-at-work thing. Not that I should. When Beangirl was tiny, I used to bring her into the church in Ottawa quite regularly. Sometimes she would play or sleep, and sometimes she would be dreadful and noisy. Like any kid. I remember one day, the minister (a dad of young ones himself) kidnapped her from me and took her into the sanctuary to march around with him and calm down. I found her later, sleeping soundly on the floor in his office, curled up on his suit jacket.
Before I started working in churches, I used to work in a bakery and I remember the wife of the owner coming in one October day to make her famous pumpkin pies. She had a wee one herself, but there she was, working away in the bakery, making acres of fragrant pies, baby snugly tied on her back. I thought then that was the model of motherhood I wanted to adopt. Working with kids in the thick of life.
But at the church, waiting for the prayer service to begin, I was worried about having her there. She looked too pale. She was silent during the service. As good as gold, as my own mother would say. And far more glowy afterward. I asked her how she was, hoping the glow was returning health and not encroaching fever. I wasn’t expecting delight. However, it turned out that she had been listening. During the service, there had been prayers for the congregation—for specific members facing difficulties, and also, more generally, for those who were ill. “Like me, Mummy. I’m one of the ones that they prayed for.” And she was.
She was back to school again on Thursday, still pale, but eager to get back to her new friends and seemingly more resilient. She came home with stories about singing, drawing and playing hospital. Signs of good health, I’m sure. When I dropped her off on Friday morning, I saw one of her pictures, posted on the wall, under the caption “Mummy and Daddy look after me when I am sick.” The horrible ghoulish colouring sheets, however, are proudly posted at home on our fridge.
