This morning at 6:30am Lily came creeping into our room and crawled into bed to snuggle. Yesterday she had had a rather traumatic pooping experience, telling me first that her tummy hurt and then that her bottom hurt. I told her it sounded like she had to poop and lead her into the bathroom, promising she’d feel better after she did.
“Bottom hurt. Feel better.” she moaned as she sat on her tiny throne. I read her books while she grunted and we talked over her day while she whimpered. We discovered Anya’s tooth while she shivered and made the poop happen. It was like a whole little drama, right there in the main house bathroom. Thank goodness it had a happy ending, with a mountain of stinky poop and a relieved toddler. “Feel better!” she smiled. “Hallelujah” I thought. But there was still something about her that had me digging out a bowl to vomit in, just in case.
This morning, as she lay wrapped in her father’s arms quietly sucking her thumb and pulling her ear, I watched her profile against her dad: hers small and rounded, his angular and long. They slept like this for about an hour while I kept encouraging a boob into Anya’s mouth, trying to buy some more sleep for all of us. Lily finally sat up and said, “I want Mommy” so I reached out to touch her curls, stroking my hand down to comfort her little face. Mark got up with her and as they bopped around the bathroom, my mommy sense finally came through. She threw up. And then she threw up and then hey! there’s some more bile! Weeeeeeeeeeee!
But that was it. She’s been fine the rest of the day, happy and playing; a little clingy, but not so bad. Part of me wonders if I willed it to happen with my suggestive little vomit bowl or if I somehow knew it would, but just missed the timing. Chicken or egg? And how do we know? I have my theories but I want to hear what you think.
