A moment

When Suzannah goes to sleep, she wraps her bedspread around her shoulders and rolls herself into a tight little cocoon. Often, like tonight, she flips around and sleeps curled up at the foot of her bed, her feet towards her pillow. Something about this makes my heart swell. Tonight, actually, everything about her has this effect -- she seems so grown-up to me, so far away from babyhood, despite the fact that sometimes I'm still prone to having moments of whoa, we have actual children five years in.

I was going to be so productive today, but I spent my morning washing sheets and peeling clothes off of both Isaac and me. He seemed out of sorts this morning, and then at nine o'clock he started throwing up. After he'd done that twice I put him in a warm bath, where he played quite cheerfully for a long time. He seemed fine after that -- and hungry, so, hoping it was a fluke (coughing from postnasal drip? he also has a tendency towards allergies, we suspect) I let him have a piece of a banana and some crackers. He devoured them, played happily for awhile, and threw it all back up. His mood shifted then, and he became clingy and unhappy. He threw up a few more times, including once all over his bed when I tried to put him down. By the time I changed into my fourth shirt of the day, he was mostly just heaving up pitiful spoonfuls of nothing and he seemed completely worn out.

It was the kind of morning that could drive a mama crazy.

I've been really lucky with both of my children when it comes to the puking department. Suzannah has never really had a bad bout of vomiting -- not until last year, shortly before she turned four. She threw up all night then, and I wound up doing load after load of laundry; by eight o'clock in the morning, she was wearing an old pair of sweats that barely even fit anymore and sleeping on the one clean blanket we had left in the house. She remembered that, today, when she asked "Why isn't Isaac feeling so good?" I asked her if she remembered how she felt when she was sick like that, and she said -- almost proudly -- "I threw up right over there on the wood floor."

One of the worst parts of such an illness, I think, is the fear. Will my other child get it? Will I get it? Will our entire family be knocked flat by this? Because I still remember a horrible day from my own childhood, one in which my brother and I and both of our parents had the stomach flu at the same time. I still remember the awful sounds of people throwing up in two bathrooms at the same time and the way I curled miserably on the couch, by myself, knowing my parents were both too sick to really take care of me the way they would have otherwise. Thankfully, knock on wood, this hasn't yet happened to us. When Suzannah got so sick last year, the rest of us were spared. When I spent an entire day throwing up last October, no one else in my family felt anything out of the ordinary. When Matt got sick on New Year's Eve Day, the rest of us were fine. And so, I hope, is the case this time.

I put Isaac to bed shortly after lunch and he went right to sleep. Suzannah and I curled up together on the living room couch and read a couple of her books, and then she scampered into her room and crawled right up into bed for "quiet time." She actually fell asleep. She doesn't really nap anymore, but she's had several late nights recently and really not enough sleep, so I wasn't entirely surprised. In that moment, I decided to forget about the vacuuming and the rest of the laundry and I collapsed in the recliner to read Faithful Place, by Tana French (which is everything I could possibly want from a summer read). I hadn't read more than a page before Isaac cried pitifully for me.

I sighed. I put my book down.

I braced myself, waiting to hear the tell-tale sounds of gagging. They never came; he merely whimpered. I peeked in his room. He was still lying down, though he wasn't asleep. He probably would have fallen back asleep if I'd left him alone, but the sight of his wan face broke my heart a bit. I lifted him up and he sagged against my shoulder. He wasn't too limp to wrap his arms around my neck.

I settled back into the recliner with him, and he rested his cheek against my chest. He felt warm, but not alarmingly so. He sighed and grew heavier as he relaxed against me, and we leaned back together. I kissed his wispy hair, kissed his ear, rocked with him. His breathing became steady, sleepy, slow. He lapsed into snoring after a few moments.

I actually picked up my novel and read a few pages -- it is not one I want to put down, at all, until it's finished -- but after a few moments, I set it down again. Because really, I just wanted to hold my son. And I hated that he felt sick, I hated how confused he seemed every time he threw up, hated that he wasn't his usual happy-go-lucky little self, but I cherished that moment all the same -- the absolute gift of that moment that allowed me to just hold him while he relaxed against me and slept. His warm little back rose and fell against the palm of my hand. The fluff of his hair brushed against my lips.

I didn't get anything done, but I'll hold this moment long after my son has outgrown rocking in my arms.