Today everything hurts. Yesterday everything hurt more. My mild allergies became a nightmare over the last couple of days.

I’m also thinking that my body has finally said, “Hey lady, we’ve had enough. You’ve been driving us like a chain gang. You’re finally starting to feel like you’ve got it emotionally together, but we’re exhausted. So we’re pullin’ the plug on you. We’re on strike until conditions improve.”

Yesterday it was so bad I couldn’t drive. So the kids had to stay home. There was no mommy shuttle service.

I really beat myself up over that one. I can hear the Senate Confirmation Hearings in about 30 years… “Ms. H, we were planning to rubber stamp your supreme court nomination but it seems you missed a crucial day of 4th grade and your sisters missed preschool for no reason other than your mother’s migraine and allergies. This indicates weakness of volition and poor work ethics…”

They were angelic enough to invent a game for themselves in their room and stay away from mommy who could only whisper, wear her sunglasses inside because the light hurt, and serve up chicken noodle soup and cookies. I nearly had to wear a blindfold when I had to go get something out of the car.

Their room (and pretty much the whole house) looks like it was attacked by pirates. Messy ones with lots of pillows. Pirates who change clothes often and wear lots of lip gloss.

Today is much better. Thanks to my wonderful pharmacist and doctor who spoke — about me, no less, because they are amazing people — and gave my wonderful hubby a little package of medicine for me.

So today I must explain that I am still a bit out of sorts. I am not particularly reflective or positive. I can only huddle in the living room where it is nice and dark and peaceful, and hope that my headache subsides even a little more before it’s time to pick up the kids and get the chain gang back in action.

Back again? That's awesome. Good to see you again!

Band-aids are a form of currency in our household. They are treasured by my kids, and every owie no matter how small seems to require one.

This got me thinking: An owie is never really dealt with until it has been cared for with love.

But somewhere between the age of 4 and 40, we stop paying attention to our owies. We leave them exposed yet we expect them to be ok. We no longer tell people openly that we have them, and we no longer expect others to kiss them and offer us protection.

Thus, there are a lot of unhealed, exposed owies out there. Ouch.

That lead me into thinking about something else: How can I help others? What is it you need that I can, maybe in my own small way, do for you?

And that, my dear friends, is leading me to put peace, happiness and love into action. I’m going to try to help with the owies.

Now, I know may sound a bit crazy and I have no idea what might happen. I only know that hopefully it will help people who need to connect and communicate, and it will enable me be the little extension-cord-of-life that I so dearly love being.

I know people are hurting. Lots and lots of owies are going untreated.

There is entirely too much pain in the world right now. We need to start giving our owies the love and attention they need.

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This morning I have to warn you: I’m grumpy. Grumpy with a capital G.

This is partly due to all my little people being up late last night for the school spring concert. It’s partly due to not being able to sleep and staying up to channel surf between “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Sleepless in Seattle.”

But it’s mostly due to having listened to “Stairway to Heaven” performed on handbells during the above-mentioned concert. I’m not kidding.

So this morning I’m thinking, wow, how on earth am I gonna do this? How will I be able to write about peace, love and happiness in action when I can’t even find 8 pairs of clean socks in their various assorted sizes and acceptable (aka, pink) colors? How can I write when all I really want to do is to go back to bed (except for the fact that I can’t because there’s a huge pile of laundry on the bed now thanks to having to rummage for the socks).

Blech. Double blech.

Then it happened. I was driving past a huge high school here in Chicago, and a little entsy weensy miracle moment happened.

Now in case you haven’t noticed, most of the kids on their way to high school look like they hope the sidewalk might open up and swallow them up before they get there. I feel so incredibly bad for them. They just look so miserable. It’s like they’re off to join a chain gang (or to play you-know-what on the handbells).

Anyway, this girl comes bounding down the stairs, smiling hugely. She hugs this big boy, who grins from ear to ear. It was one of those hugs with an extra little schquweeze in it at the end. The really good friend kind, not a romantic one.

Then she bounces back into the school. He continues walking down the sidewalk. The whole thing took about 15 seconds, if that.

Wow. Not usual let-me-blend-into-the-shrubbery behavior from teens.

It made me wonder, is there anything better than a hug?

I don’t mean a creepy-get-away-from-me hug, or an I-have-to-hug-you-but-I’d-rather-go-play-the-handbells hug.

Hugging is a risk. A hug leaves you open and vulnerable. Other people can see it, and this could cause problems for both hugger and huggee.

But it is a moment when we stop for a split second. Sometimes we breathe in deeply. In a genuine hug we share peace, we have a moment of happiness, and we have an opportunity to share our love.

I once worked for a wonderful woman named Sylvia. I adored her. She had the key qualities in a really great supervisor — she got really interesting and amazing manicures every week, she was the best-ever consultant on lunchtime carryout, and she was absolutely fearless and completely supportive.

When you work in the world of child welfare and have cases that are unbelievably scary and icky, you really need someone with these qualities.

Anyway, after we would get back from court (icky icky icky), or had some sort of crisis (which was pretty much all the time), Sylvia would always offer a hug. It was one of those motherly, comforting, it-will-be-ok hugs that makes problems feel better.

Now, I understand, hugging is not for everybody. Some people just don’t like it and that’s ok. I know far more than I ever wanted to know about the whole “good touch bad touch” thing, and am a huge proponent of what let’s call “ethical hugging”. AKA, you should only hug if the huggee has given his/her consent.

Anyway, back to Sylva. I realized this morning that miss hugs. Hugs from people who understand.

Know what I mean? There’s something about getting a hug from someone who knows what you’re going through that is so comforting.

I know there are actually people who read this blog. Yay! I have readers!

I wish this morning, for all my grumpiness, that I could give each of you a hug. You are special. We understand each other. I’ve received little messages from many of you and I know we’re on the same wavelength.

I’m not sure what the online equivalent of a hug is… so I’ll send you the thought of a hug. All you have to do is send it back.

Ready? Set? Here it comes!

PS:  If you kind of liked reading this, here’s my first post on the same topic: Peace, Happiness and Love In Action Week 1.

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