Last night - no, wait, I guess that would be this morning - a little after 2, I heard a cough and a gasp from Sophia's room. A doomed chill ran down my spine. And sure enough, as I swung my feet to the floor, she gave an anguished cry of, "Will someone come clean off my foot?"
I found her, as I'd suspected, sitting up, barfing into the diamond formed by her legs. And so it began.
Clay and I swung into mess-containment mode (we'd had blueberries with dinner. Of COURSE we'd had blueberries), mopped off the pitiful little urchin, and tucked her in bed between us.
For the rest of the night we slept in 20 minute chunks, to be then woken up by another round of vomit. I have a system for sick kids sleeping in my bed, and I'm pretty good at containing it. We did use up all the clean towels in the house, though. After throwing up, Sophia would pitifully request just a little water, and I'd give her a drink, then try to wrestle it away before she gulped enough to make her sick again. I swear to you, she growled at me once.
Today was spent mostly just sitting around, with a fever-limp girl draped across me, doling out sips of water and nibbles of inoffensive foods (and NO BLUEBERRIES).
If you had told me twenty years ago that I would have days like today, when I am on sick kid duty despite two hours of sleep the night before, when I would nudge two other kids through (nearly) a full day of school work, when I would spend many moments wondering idly if the nausea I was feeling at that exact moment was standard pregnant sickness or something ominous, I would have thought you were just being mean.
And if you had told me I would consider it an honor, I would have thought you were insane.
Shows you what I knew.