It’s 8:00am, Sunday morning. Joe is out of town. Noah and Lucy are still sleeping, Quinn and Larkin are watching cartoons.
Last
night, after nearly a full week of managing Lucy’s second round with a
tummy bug in under four weeks, Larkin stood in the kitchen and began
heaving the contents of her tummy all over the floor. She’d also already
had a turn with the stomach flu in the last four weeks, making her my
second kid to have a second wave.
After
already having a challenging week coping with the reality of constantly
sick kids, feeling sorry for myself and in the throes of winter
despair, last night undid me. I slid into total defeat. My “sorry for
myself” amplified to soul-splitting levels as I mopped up the floor and
scrubbed the puke bowl clean for the millionth time.
And
then? I gave up. I finally gave up. That tense feeling of waiting and
wishing it was different— the anger that this was happening...the
self-pity—- it faded into background noise as I confronted the very real
and immediate issue of how to handle a 2-year-old pukebomb who could go
off at any time, wherever she might be. And we all know that 2-year
olds don’t hit the bowl without help. I kicked into pure survival mode
and prepped the couch for her to watch a cartoon (sheet-covered, old
towels under that and around the floor, a bench with her puke bowl and a
little bit of water for sipping). I then marched upstairs and prepped
her bedroom for potential battle: mattress covered in towels, towels on
the floor, extra toys removed (but lovey and fave blanket remained,
because sick babies deserve comfort, even when the thought of things
getting puked on makes me cringe hard).
For
the first time (I’m sheepish to admit it took this long), I finally
LEANED IN. Rolled up my sleeves and accepted that this is my life. This,
right this minute, is my life. It is what it is. I cannot change that
Joe is out of town and snow is on the ground outside and two of my four
kids are actively contagious with vomit germs. I am here and I cannot
wish it away. And so I just leaned in. My peripheral vision narrowed
until all I could see what what needed to be done right then to make my
girls comfortable and to make any potential cleanup as easy as possible.
My job wasn’t to wish we were back in those nostalgic days where no one
was sick and the trees had leaves on them and all of us liked being
outside and healthy. My job was to just HANDLE IT, whatever “it” turned
out to be.
And
it was okay. Not great: Larkin did in fact vomit again, at midnight, in
her crib. But I was watching the monitor and heard a tell-tale cough
before it began and was fast enough to make it to her room to hold her
over the bowl. And it was a teeny amount. And she was calm and ready to
lay right back down to try to sleep again.
I
didn’t get enough sleep: every time Lucy stirred, I worried she was
going to have a repeat of yesterday morning where she kept leaning over
her bowl with the urge to vomit, not sleeping... just waiting. And in
fact, at 5:45 I woke to the adrenaline-inducing sound of her heaving
into her bowl, as I’d worried about. After nearly 24 hours not puking—
even eating a normal dinner— she had a lot to put into her bowl, and I
had another gross clean-up/scrub to do. So tired.
But it was okay. I handled the night and we’re all okay and any mess was mostly contained.
And
even though today is only day 2 of Joe’s 4-day absence, and even though
two of my four are actively still in the 24-post puke window of
potential contagion (and probably more than that... we’re probably just
totally diseased and contagious on every surface of our own persons and
this whole house. I can’t freak out about it anymore. ACCEPTANCE.)...
even though this is not how I wanted my life to look right now (I
fantasize about playing outside and about decluttering projects and
about sewing summer dresses for the girls and about open windows and
laying on quilts outside in the shade reading books) I am here. I’ve
accepted that this is what life is today. Puke bowls and old towels and
staying home from church and needing a shower and watching too many
cartoons.
And
in honor of this feeling of defeat/acceptance this morning, I have some
candles lit for “hygge”. The cute little diffuser is wafting out
comforting essential oils. My Valentine tulips from Joe are bringing a
piece of Spring to my house. There’s a bottle of Vitamin D supplements
right there next to the flowers— I’ve only been taking them for 2 days,
but I think they’re helping— and I’m listening to piano music on Alexa
as I do a tiny bit of cross-stitching. Larkin and Quinn are watching
(too many) cartoons and Lucy and Noah are still sleeping and we probably
have more vomit ahead... but this is my life. I give up. And in giving
up, I actually feel looser, lighter, and better. Sometimes maybe being
defeated simply means we release our stubborn will and wishing, and only
then can we soften enough to accept and let go.
(Now, to try to keep this state of mind until my partner in crime returns.)
(I
wish it didn’t take my stubborn heart so long to learn lessons. And
then forget them and have to learn them again. And again.)