kiwords

Sophia has a tummy bug, and has been busy today, spewing unmentionable fluids from both ends of her self. Poor little pumpkin, she doesn't really understand what's happening when she has to throw up, so when she starts to get that icky sensation, she climbs up in my lap (where better to be when you feel icky than draped over your mama like a soggy dishrag?). Then she moans, "owwww."

Whenever anything hurts on her she claims knee pain - I don't know why. If anyone else says "ouch," she looks at them with sympathy and says knowingly, "Hurt. Knee?" Not my job to understand.

Anyhow, so there she is, poured across my torso, complaining of knee pain, when the first wave of her stomach contents rears up in her mouth. She struggles, then - for some reason - adresses herself directly to my boobs.

I have changed my clothes five times today, and taken two showers. I am entirely out of clean bras that fit, and have corralled the girls in an old, immediate post-partum era nursing bra that is the size of a rodeo arena. Remind me not to jump around too much.

Speaking of nursing, I am of course feeding Sophia the prescribed BRAT diet, which is not perhaps the same BRAT diet you're thinking of. Instead of Banana, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast, Sophia's BRAT consists of:

Breastmilk

Really, just breastmilk,

Always and only breastmilk, and

Truly, just the boobs, ma'am.

The way I see it, this means that today I get the special privilege of MAKING all her food, WEARING all her food, and CLEANING UP all her food. And then living within the lingering scent of...well, let's leave it at "lingering scent."

I'm not complaining, just saying. Okay, maybe complaining just a little. But here's the real truth. I keep seeing, pretty clearly from where I sit, how efficiently our kids move out of our grasp. Sooner than it can possibly be a good idea, they are making their own choices and living with their own mistakes. And despite the fact that it's CLEARLY a design flaw, God has still not installed the free will mute button that I've been requesting.

It's hard - it is SO HARD to let them go and step off their own cliffs. To know when to speak and when to shut up. To let them find their own ways. It is so hard.

And this? The endless comforting and mopping up after a tiny girl? This is easy. By comparison, this is simple and sweet. Yes, I'm tired.

But at least for now, I know what to do.