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.)

Every Morning For Now

Every morning for the last six years, give or take a few, this is one of the places I stand-- behind my girl, a basket of supplies nearby, wrangling tangles and coaxing Lucy's thick hair into a ponytail, or a braid or two. First I take out any previous ponytail holders. Then I usually add a small dollop of leave-in-conditioner, focusing primarily on that middle patch of hair in the back where her hair begins to spill down her back-- the place where tangles form into a briar patch of knots. I then spray her hair with water and begin working out tangles with a Wet Brush-- a miracle brush I've had less than a year that I should have spent the money on years ago. As much as I try to keep the pain to a minimum, she flinches on many of the brush strokes until I've managed to get the tangles out or down to the part of her hair where I can then grip the whole mass of hair and use my fist as the buffer to pain while I yank on tangles more vigorously within the ponytail hanging down from my hand. If you've ever brushed long hair, I'm certain you know exactly what I'm talking about. 

Once her hair is tangle-free, I make a part in the top front, and pull her face-framing hair into a small ponytail or french braid, only along the right side of her head-- preventative measures to keep her hair out of her face all day. There is nearly never a day that her right front side of her hair is not contained in one of these ways. I've never been able to let myself let it go, and consequently, she has never learned how to keep her hair out of her face herself. I still don't know just how much of a disservice I've done her by always keeping her hair tamed.... time will tell, I suppose. 

After this first ponytail/braid, I then usually either brush her hair into a low pony or into two braids. Again, this almost never varies, and the reasons are nuanced: 1. Since hearing scare stories from fellow moms about head lice, I decided early on in her school career that I'd just go ahead and never send her to school with her hair down. Easy enough. 2. But because she nearly never has her hair down, when I do give her that option, say for church or just a random summer day, she nearly never opts for it. She is a creature of routine, and I've created the routine of "hair up", so she doesn't choose "hair down". 3. I've tried to talk her into a bun or two. Nope-- too different from the routine. 4. I snuck her hair into a high ponytail last week-- her first one-- and she didn't say anything about it. Good or bad. Which means maybe I can add that to the menu now. But maybe still not actually ask her if she wants it or not. Because she'll say no. Because it's not what she's used to. But she didn't mind it when it was in all day last week. So.

At least once a month, when she's particularly vocal about the hair-brushing pain, usually after two or three days of being home with nowhere to be, and not having her hair brushed daily-- these days which also seem to yield a higher likelihood that she'll either be in costume and/or rolling around the floor/in a blanket/in and out of a play tent/etc. where friction compounds her tangles--I then threaten to take her to get her hair cut. Not short.... not like a bob or anything.... But maybe shoulder-length? I tell her that it would make hair-brushing a breeze every time. She says she loves her long hair, and used to protest the idea of a cut more... but recently, she hasn't argued to keep it long when I bring it up. So I see a trim in our future. Maybe only 3-4". 

After all this--- the actual work and the overthinking of the actual work.... the agony (for her head and my nerves) of working out particularly bad tangles...the wondering if I've created problems by under-instructing her on how-tos and over-containing the flyaway potential and being too routine overall.... After all this, I still love the feel of her hair under my hands. I love the moment every day that we are physically connected, engaging in a timeless ritual between mother and daughter. I love that she lets me. (That she doesn't even know any different). I love turning chaos into silken order. I'm even getting better at the braiding bit. 

But as she moves from age 7 to age 8 soon, I've begun to realize I can't do it for her forever. She's going to need to learn some things for herself. So we've begun a few little lessons here and there-- how to brush one's own hair. How to make a ponytail (I never realized how complicated this is to someone who's never done it. Harder than tying shoes, even.) Soon I'll begin helping her try shampooing and rinsing her own hair. (It's so THICK. I haven't been able to bring myself to let her do it on her own yet... all I can envision is clumps of conditioner still deep in her hair, unrinsed.) 

I know a large percentage of mothers out there would read this and be SHOCKED we've not done any of this until now. But maybe some of the moms are where I'm at. And maybe a few more won't even begin this much teaching until a few more years after age 8. To each her own. I think maybe the girls will all turn out okay in this area, eventually. (Though watching my girl with a ponytail holder, still not grasping how to pull the hair through it.... ay yi yi.)

All this to say-- Every morning for the last six years, this ritual, this act of love and caregiving, has been a good and humble work. The simple task of brushing hair, braiding hair, smoothing hair. Using my hands to show her I love her and I care about her well-being. And one day it'll be over. She'll take the brush into her own hands and she'll learn her own way. And I will miss this. But I get to do it a while longer. Every morning. Every morning for now.