labneh chicken salad: repairing motherhood strains

When one spends three hours late Sunday night in a pediatric ER because one’s child develops eyes similar to Rocky Balboa’s at Round Eight (did he ever make it to round 8?) you know you’re in for your parental run of the money. Large, pendulous red mountains rose around bloodshot eyes which slowly disappeared under the swelling, demanding a detour from a peaceful family evening at home to one filled with fluorescent lighting, numerous nurses and lots of hospital forms.

The ER adventure lasted three hours, ending with a diagnosis of an extreme reaction to conjunctivitis (because normal reaction was too boring, I assume), and the added bonus of an ear infection as well (“Oh yeah, mom, I can’t hear out of that ear”, would have been a handy thing to know earlier on). And then, the remaining wee hours of the night were spent holding a screaming seven-year old as he shrieked and squirmed in horrible pain (what is a mother to do with such pain?) and you tell your kid he will be fine, the Advil will kick in, the antibiotic will kick in – and you want to offer love and full force of confidence and assurance as you are The Mother (and Mother knows best, right?) but he will not, cannot, be held. He cannot be contained through his pain that has suddenly and ravenously devoured that precious little body and you watch a million tiny crystals shatter in you, as something tremendous breaks and your mouth dries up ever so slightly; you cannot help him at this very moment and so you plead this episode (which you later find out to be a ruptured eardrum) will soon end and allow his exhausted small self to fall into forgiving sleep so that you can let out that breath you’ve been holding in all day; carefully exhaling so as not to disrupt the delicately woven web of his well-being at this particular point in time.

You feel incredibly hopeless but you are not hopeless. The Advil does kick in, the fatigue takes a hold and you are left with tiny fists clenched and a sleeping child, his flustered panting the only remnant of the pain that kept him up just minutes ago. A sense of relief begins to absorb you right along with hunger: violent, tactless hunger, because you realize in all this time you’ve not eaten a thing not even a sip of water.

The appetite is loud and angry and doesn’t take your neglect well. You need something full and filling, rich and creamy, sweet and savory with a crunch as well; something to engage all your senses and distract you from what has left such a rattled stamp. And so you shuffle over to your refrigerator in the darkness of night and hope you will find the unfindable in there. This is like a woman in search of her perfect mate: it just ain’t that easy (for you’ve read countless articles about this, watched Oprah and her clones, you are in touch). But in this case you are amazed at how in tune you are with yourself, for, gleaming amongst bowls of oranges, egg crates and the faithful tub of mayonnaise, sits your Creamy Labneh Chicken Salad begging for a midnight rendezvous. It is sweet, savory, crunchy, and velvety all in one and it is yours for this night.

A smile replaces the furrowed brow that has been your uniform all evening. And even though it is midnight and you are tired beyond words you now dash, dash I say, for a spoon, grab that entire bowl of creamy deliciousness, feeling the tang of the Middle Eastern sour cream delicacy of Labneh, the sugary assurance of golden raisins and plump grapes and the steadfast American crunch of celery and, selfishly and quietly, you eat by the glow of the kitchen fridge.

You eat and already you know things will be better tomorrow.