Logan stayed home from school today, complaining that his “tummy hurt.” He claimed to have thrown up four times in his bed when I woke him up this morning, and even though I didn’t see much evidence, I kept him home.
Thank goodness I did because shortly after the other kids left, he threw up all over the hallway on his way to the bathroom. I gave him a bath and tucked him in on the couch with a bowl of dry Cheerios, a water bottle and a movie to watch and told him I was going to go clean up the mess. He said, “I’m really sorry I threw up in the hallway, Mom.” I told him it was OK, just an accident. I asked him if he felt like he was going to throw up again. He said, “No, I’m going to keep the throw-up away by exercising.”
Fast forward a bit. I come to check on Logan.
Me: Did you pour your water into the Cheerios?
Me: Then why are they all wet?
Logan: Because I threw up in them.
Never mind that there was a bucket specifically for this purpose a foot away from his head, the Cheerios bowl was closer, so that’s what he aimed for. Poor little guy. He tried to make less of a mess this time, bless his heart.
Though some of what Logan said made me chuckle, I hate the powerless feeling that comes when you see your children going through some sort of pain that you can’t help them with. I watch them struggle with sickness or emotional pain and I would do just about anything to have that pain be mine instead. There is no doubt in my mind that I would die for these kids if need be.
Now that’s a kind of love that can’t be bought or forced by will or even thought about very hard, it just IS. Love at its most gritty and heart-wrenching, both freeing and enslaving, at times creating giddiness and others, despair. An innate, all-encompassing, neverending, precious part of our beings that slumbers until our children make us parents.
Who knew that vomit could make a person become so philosophical?