Of all the essays in the Dead Lovers collection, Silke-Maria Weineck's "Dead Children: Ben Jonson's Epitaph 'On My First Sonne'" is the one that has stayed with me most, mainly for some lines it has about how children spur their parents to contemplate mortality, their own as well as that of their progeny. That seems especially true to me today as I stay at home with Kid #2, victim of a summer flu. A few months ago, just as she entered the third year of her life, she had a febrile seizure: as I held her feverish body close to mine, her eyes suddenly rolled back into her head and she convulsed. Though the fit probably lasted less than a minute, time stretched infinitely away as I tried to bring her back and could not make her respond to voice or touch or the coldness of water. After a night in the emergency room, she fortunately returned quickly to good health. Now every time her temperature starts to rise, however, we must dose her with medication to make sure another seizure is not triggered. So today I am feeling like she is an egg that may break.
I had hoped to tidy the electronic desk a bit better before leaving the keys to the blog in Eileen's capable hands. I'd hoped to respond to the absolutely fascinating spool of comments below the Whoops, There Goes Humanity! post. That kind of thinking just doesn't seem possible right now, especially with Barney and Friends blaring in the background.
With luck by day's end I will post something on Peter Haidu's book, and toot a small horn to announce the Era of Joy, which commences tomorrow. Stay tuned.