I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
July 19, 2008
“I’m so TIRED,” Punky said after Art Camp earlier this week.
Uncharacteristically, she got out of the car and asked to go straight to bed. It was a hot day and she had spent the last 30 minutes playing outside with friends, so I didn’t think much of it. I put her to bed and woke her up two hours later.
“I’m just SO TIRED,” she said wearily, plodding from her room into the den and lying down on the sofa. I figured she’d snap out of it after a few minutes, but she didn’t. Still, she wanted to go to the YMCA with me, so a half-hour later, I began getting her dressed. She stood silently, then began making strange noises, like she was choking.
“What is it, Punky?” I asked. She kept making the noises. Her eyes widened.
“Are you okay?” I asked nervously. Then it happened. Punky puked. In my hands.
If mommies had one of those sashes Girl Scouts wear, on which are sewn countless merit badges for countless skills they’ve mastered, I have no doubt there would be a badge for moms who catch puke in their hands. It’s a rite of passage, really, and something that comes in handy down the road when these tiny, puking kids become flippant teenagers. That’s when we moms get to say, “Don’t you use that tone with me! I gave birth to you! I CAUGHT YOUR PUKE IN MY HANDS!”
I hoped that Punky’s pukage would be a one-time thing. I told myself it was from the heat of the day and playing too hard. But she had a fever, and later that evening, after I had put her to bed, I heard coughing from her room. I went to check on her with a feeling of dread and sure enough, the sour smell of vomit greeted me when I opened the door. Punky spent the rest of the night on a pallet in our bedroom and I lay beside her for a long time, stroking her hair and feeling sad.
When my children get sick, I feel so powerless and afraid. Oh, I know that they will almost certainly be fine- still, I can’t help but worry a little. What if this isn’t a stomach bug? What if it’s salmonella? What if Punky’s fever goes up? When should I call the doctor? She looks so little and frail, asleep on the floor, her long hair spread like a murky wave behind her. I stroke her back gently, silently willing her to get better, and then I get in my own bed and go to sleep.
The next morning, she woke up and proclaimed “the beeber” was gone and indeed, she seemed to be cooler. She asked for and received a waffle and some warm milk in a sippy cup. The warm milk was an unusual request; It was if she knew what her body could stomach, if you’ll pardon the pun. She watched TV in the den, a mixing bowl positioned beside her “just in case,” while I stood in the kitchen typing, imagining myself speaking Friday at BlogHer, and then pausing to puke all over the front row.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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