A love that holds your hair back when you puke.

I’m sick.I’m pukey, poopy sick. The same thing that Amelia had is now ravaging my intestines. I always said that I’d rather have it than my kids. I still think that. I can’t imagine the crankiness that would ensue if they felt like this. And I’d be having a fit about how little they were consuming in beverages. I know that they out drank me today.

This is the second time in, what, 4 months that I’ve wanted to crawl into a hole. My house is overrun by cheezits, cinnamon bread and sippy cups of orange juice. It wouldn’t be so bad if Amelia ate real food on a regular basis. So now, I have to worry about her intake as well. I know I’m a bit dehydrated at the moment (skin pinch test) and I don’t want her to be.

I’m just feeling sorry for myself. At least the girls spent the afternoon with Robyn. I did get a nap and quiet time. I did get to post on the potty. And I did get to puke alone without a running commentary on my “gag”. And then I get the reminder from Ella that Daddy had lots of gags and maybe the ambulance should come like it did for daddy and maybe a doctor can try and make mommy better.

What I didn’t get, and will not get for a long time, is cared for. Nobody wants to refresh my water or get me a blanket. Nobody wants to even come past the open door. It’s like I’m a leper. And why should they? I mean, that’s one of the things that I lost when I buried my husband. When you are committed to someone, you do those kind of things out of love and concern. And wanting to make them feel better. Even if it means that the bug hits you next. Even if it means picking up the slack. That’s part of what love does. We do it for our children. We do it for our spouses. And…that’s pretty much it. Unless it’s a special relationship. Like I’d do it for my sister in a heartbeat. My brother? Not so much. Different relationship.

I’m just feeling sorry for myself today. I don’t feel like I’ve been screwed completely by life until days like today. It shouldn’t be like this.

Ella is into story telling. Not in a bad way. We started doing it as a bedtime ritual sometime around Christmas. We talk about what we did during the day and what we’ll do tomorrow. We revisit the past. I started telling her stories about her dad and about trips we took and people we visited. They are short. And she fills in details (it was a RED airplane). The stories have a beginning, middle and end and have characters. Which always involve her.

Now she does it all the time. She’s always been into the whole running commentary thing. That’s why I can’t take her to a movie. She has to comment on every thing. She gets that from my mom. I can’t take her to a movie either.

So I’m nursing Amelia to sleep tonight and I hear her go into the bathroom. Here’s what she said:
“I stand next to the potty and put up the seat. Then I turn around and slide my back butt over the hole. It’s a secret hole. Sometimes things come out of my back butt but something always comes out my front butt. Then I wipe. Nope, don’t have to ask mommy this time. I did it all by myself. Then I pull up my jammie pants. Then I put one pump of soap into my hand and rub, rub rub under the water. Where is my towel? Here it is. Right by Melia’s towel. And then I’m done.”

It’s like she was making an instructional video. To herself. In the dark. I love that kid. She’s been really happy lately. She’s clingy at random times but really, really happy. And she’s very concerned if I am not happy and wants to fix it. She’s been helpful. I don’t wonder if it just took this long to get things leveled out and making sense again in her head. Kids are great that way.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s