It is 9:53 p.m. Both kiddos are asleep. The baby monitor is quiet. The dryer is tumbling with the last of the laundry. The living room lights are dim and cozy. I am stretched out on the couch with a cat at my feed, my knitting bag sitting next to me, ready for action. The remote control is also sitting next to me, in case I want a little background noise, but for now, the quiet is nice.
I should be enjoying the moment and looking forward to an hour or so of unwind time before heading up to bed. But instead, my heart just won't quiet down and my brain can't settle, and I keep neurotically looking to the baby monitor, to catch any sound before it happens. And why?
Because Sam said his tummy hurt.
We watched the end of Finding Nemo tonight, and ate some popcorn. He was happy and sweet and wonderful. He was full of energy tonight, and was in great spirits. He played nicely with Ellie. He was helpful. He was funny. He was a good listener as Matt read him bedtime stories, and even though he was a little squirmy in bed until I could come over and lie down by him, he was still really sweet. He asked for hugs. He snuggled next to me and started to get drowsy.
And then he said his tummy hurt.
I go into crazy-anxious mode when my kids are sick. Not because I'm worried about something serious. But because I am totally out of control. I can't make fevers go away. I can't control whether they are going to throw up or not. I can't make a little drippy nose stop running. And let me tell you, I don't deal well with this lack of control.
I asked Sam if he felt like he had to throw up, and he said no. I asked him if he had to use the potty, and he said no. He sat up, got out of bed, and said that he had to sit in his chair for a while. Then he agreed to sit on the potty, which he did, and he sang and joked with me while he was in the bathroom. We went back upstairs, and he went back to bed, and he said that his tummy still hurt. We got out the bucket just in case, which he hovered over until I explained to him that when our tummies hurt, we might try to use the potty, but we don't try to throw up. He promptly dismissed the bucket. He asked if he had a fever (nope). He asked for more hugs. He asked for the fan to blow on him. He asked me to sit on the floor so that I wouldn't block the breeze. He told me stories about Finding Nemo. He held my hand. He fell asleep.
I'm sitting on a couch, all by myself, the house quiet. I have all the space in the world to take an hour to take care of myself, and I can't do it. I'm too worried that Sam is about to puke. I'm too worried that he's about to spring a fever. I'm too worried about what tomorrow will be like if he's sick, because I have to be at church in the morning, and we had plans to drive up to Minneapolis for a night. I'm worried that he is going to feel scared if he wakes up and has to throw up. I'm worried that he's going to crawl into our bed and throw up there.
It's crazy. I get crazy when the kids even hit at being sick. Crazy. Crazy and anxious. I usually end up deferring to Matt when the kids are sick, except that he's sick right now (sore throat), so I have to be the grown-up. And have I mentioned that Sam isn't even sick as far as we know? I mean, one bedtime tummy ache does not mean you are sick.
I am a worrier by nature. That is a grave understatement. When you have kids, you add a bazillion more things to your life that you can worry about. You worry about food and sleep and milestones and growth charts. You worry about whether your kids are happy, or whether you are being too strict, or whether you are playing with them enough, or whether you are exposing them to the right toys, books, games, and media. You worry about how much media they consume. You worry about them falling down the stairs, and you worry about cars jumping the curb. You worry about protecting them from thunderstorms and bullies. But for all of these opportunities for worrying, my heart has decided to worry most about the possibility that a kid might throw up. It's ridiculous.
And it's probably because I want my kids to be happy and healthy. And I can do so much to control that...except that I cannot protect them from colds and tummy bugs and fevers. And I can't magically make them better when they get sick. And maybe that is why I deal so poorly with the idea of sick kids - because it is one are of life where I can't just make everything better. And so I feel like I'm letting them down when they are sick. All I can do is make them as comfortable as possible. And then, I'm helpless. Which is a feeling that I hate.
Sam continues to sleep. As does Ellie. And Matt. And the cats. I am starting to feel a little drowsy here on the couch, and am just waiting for the dryer to finish its cycle before I, too, head up to bed. I don't know if I'll get any knitting done. I don't know if Sam is sick or not. But I do know that the sun will come up in the morning, and (as a wise person once reminded me) everything feels better in the morning.
Fingers crossed for a quiet night and for happy, healthy faces in the morning!
I should be enjoying the moment and looking forward to an hour or so of unwind time before heading up to bed. But instead, my heart just won't quiet down and my brain can't settle, and I keep neurotically looking to the baby monitor, to catch any sound before it happens. And why?
Because Sam said his tummy hurt.
We watched the end of Finding Nemo tonight, and ate some popcorn. He was happy and sweet and wonderful. He was full of energy tonight, and was in great spirits. He played nicely with Ellie. He was helpful. He was funny. He was a good listener as Matt read him bedtime stories, and even though he was a little squirmy in bed until I could come over and lie down by him, he was still really sweet. He asked for hugs. He snuggled next to me and started to get drowsy.
And then he said his tummy hurt.
I go into crazy-anxious mode when my kids are sick. Not because I'm worried about something serious. But because I am totally out of control. I can't make fevers go away. I can't control whether they are going to throw up or not. I can't make a little drippy nose stop running. And let me tell you, I don't deal well with this lack of control.
I asked Sam if he felt like he had to throw up, and he said no. I asked him if he had to use the potty, and he said no. He sat up, got out of bed, and said that he had to sit in his chair for a while. Then he agreed to sit on the potty, which he did, and he sang and joked with me while he was in the bathroom. We went back upstairs, and he went back to bed, and he said that his tummy still hurt. We got out the bucket just in case, which he hovered over until I explained to him that when our tummies hurt, we might try to use the potty, but we don't try to throw up. He promptly dismissed the bucket. He asked if he had a fever (nope). He asked for more hugs. He asked for the fan to blow on him. He asked me to sit on the floor so that I wouldn't block the breeze. He told me stories about Finding Nemo. He held my hand. He fell asleep.
I'm sitting on a couch, all by myself, the house quiet. I have all the space in the world to take an hour to take care of myself, and I can't do it. I'm too worried that Sam is about to puke. I'm too worried that he's about to spring a fever. I'm too worried about what tomorrow will be like if he's sick, because I have to be at church in the morning, and we had plans to drive up to Minneapolis for a night. I'm worried that he is going to feel scared if he wakes up and has to throw up. I'm worried that he's going to crawl into our bed and throw up there.
It's crazy. I get crazy when the kids even hit at being sick. Crazy. Crazy and anxious. I usually end up deferring to Matt when the kids are sick, except that he's sick right now (sore throat), so I have to be the grown-up. And have I mentioned that Sam isn't even sick as far as we know? I mean, one bedtime tummy ache does not mean you are sick.
I am a worrier by nature. That is a grave understatement. When you have kids, you add a bazillion more things to your life that you can worry about. You worry about food and sleep and milestones and growth charts. You worry about whether your kids are happy, or whether you are being too strict, or whether you are playing with them enough, or whether you are exposing them to the right toys, books, games, and media. You worry about how much media they consume. You worry about them falling down the stairs, and you worry about cars jumping the curb. You worry about protecting them from thunderstorms and bullies. But for all of these opportunities for worrying, my heart has decided to worry most about the possibility that a kid might throw up. It's ridiculous.
And it's probably because I want my kids to be happy and healthy. And I can do so much to control that...except that I cannot protect them from colds and tummy bugs and fevers. And I can't magically make them better when they get sick. And maybe that is why I deal so poorly with the idea of sick kids - because it is one are of life where I can't just make everything better. And so I feel like I'm letting them down when they are sick. All I can do is make them as comfortable as possible. And then, I'm helpless. Which is a feeling that I hate.
Sam continues to sleep. As does Ellie. And Matt. And the cats. I am starting to feel a little drowsy here on the couch, and am just waiting for the dryer to finish its cycle before I, too, head up to bed. I don't know if I'll get any knitting done. I don't know if Sam is sick or not. But I do know that the sun will come up in the morning, and (as a wise person once reminded me) everything feels better in the morning.
Fingers crossed for a quiet night and for happy, healthy faces in the morning!
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