Another Mothering Milestone

Today my two youngest children watched me throw up into a plastic bowl while I was sitting on the couch. This is one of those defining moments of parenthood, right? When your own needs--in this case, the need for no audience when emptying the contents of your stomach--is subsumed by the need to take care of small children.

And what did those small, precious children do when they witnessed my lowest moment? Did they express concern for my well-being? No. They laughed. And then Charlie helpfully observed, "Wow, that's a lot of throw up!" while Jack tried to grab the bowl.

I had been sick--in lesser though definitely not fun ways--all morning even before A. left for work, so he told me he had no appointments today and I could call him if I needed him. I briefly considered collapsing on the couch and just toughing it out until 5:30 p.m., but then I realized that sort of martyrdom is really unnecessary. Also stupid.

So I made the distress call and A. was home within 45 minutes. At which point I put Jack down for a nap and crawled into the bed, where I stayed for the next four hours.

It was miserable of course, but not really. And that is because I was not trying to change diapers or meet the bus or provide food or anything else when all I felt like doing was hiding.

The definition of stay-at-home-parent luxury: Being allowed to be sick in peace. Thank you, A. Gold star for you.

I'm better now. I've had some hot water with lemon and honey, and a little rice. Tomorrow I'm sure I'll be revved up and raring to go for another day of caregiving.

Or at least not vomiting, which is really all I ask.