It started last night. A child crying in the darkness. Her parents rushing to her side trying to figure out what was wrong with the wee one. A child crying at night is never a good sign and we take these things seriously in our house. With soothing words we tried to calm little Emmy, who is almost three, back to the comfort of slumber but alas, the rancid smell of vomit wafted up to us. Poor Emmy is sick.
We cleaned her bed. We cleaned her. We cleaned me, the floor, the bathroom and gathered up towels and a vomit bucket. I grabbed my pillow and nestled next to her on a sea of towels hoping she wasn't really sick. That maybe, just maybe, it was a fluke thing. Something she ate.
Twenty minutes later Cordelia started vomiting.
Then the diarreah started.
All night long both girls took turns rushing to the bathroom and getting wiped with a cool cloth. I don't resent them for my lack of sleep, the odd smell of vomit in places it shouldn't be, or the mound of laundry I have waiting for it's turn in the washer. I just want my babies better. I want them loud and crazy, bouncing off the walls no matter how many times, when they are well, that my sanity is streched towards breaking with their rambuncious behaivor. These despondent flacid lumps on the towel lined couch strategically positioned towards their vomit buckets while watching Ponyo aren't my babies. Not the way they should be.
My heart hurts seeing them struggle with how their bodies expell the illness. I want to take away the pain, make it my own and never have to see them hurt again. I want to go lie with them on the couch, soothing their aches and providing them with at least the smallest measure of comfort I can give. But I can't.
There are three other kids that aren't sick to care for. Even though I woke up with a runny nose and red, itchy eyes, I've popped a benedryl and am carrying on. I'm writing to you with my fishbowl coke-bottle thick glasses on (though stylish they may be) because my eyes can't stand contacts right now. I'm trying not to analyze every twinge in my gut that might signal that I'm falling to the tummy bug. Rob, on the other hand, didn't get by so lucky. He's sick too but is still trudging through it, the soilder that he is, and heading off to work.
Wish me luck today as I pull out all the stops. Every trick I've stashed in my mommy handbag over the past eight years will be getting a workout. I'm hoping this is just a twenty-four hour thing. Max was sick on the way home from the land. We thought it was just car sickness but perhaps he was the precursor to last nights events. God only knows what we picked up in the hotel room. Maybe, it'll run it's course with us four and leave the oldest two alone. Maybe it won't be as bad as it could get. Maybe.