I was laying in bed with Delilah when it happened. I had to barf.
I’d eaten an early and ill-advised dinner and it was coming back to haunt me. I sat up, then doubled over, feeling the cold sweat creep over me, unable to ignore the fact that yes, yes I was about to be violently ill.
That’s when I felt the weight of a four year old on my back, and heard a high pitched voice speak into my ear at full volume: “What are you doing, Mommy?”
I sat up, if only to remove the tiny gestapo from my shoulders. “My tummy hurts.” I told her. ‘I think I’m going to spit up.”
“And then you’re going to come back and lie down with me?”
I couldn’t answer. I was already on my feet.
“Mommy?! Where are you going?!”
“I’m going to go spit up.”
Now she was on her feet too — “Can I come with you?!”
“No, you can’t come with me to spit up. Get back in bed.”
I don’t know if she listened, I was already behind the bathroom door.
A few minutes that felt like violent hours later, Scott peeked in to offer me a glass of 7-Up. The Tiny One was standing in the hallway behind him. “Is Mommy okay Daddy? Why did she spit up?”
The look of concern on her little face sucked me in. “I’m okay baby. Want to come give me a hug?”
She nodded, and shuffled towards me in her footy pajamas, wrapping her arms around me, resting her head on my shoulder, unfazed by my clammy neck. She shoved her thumb in her mouth and settled in. And then:
“What color was your spit up Mommy?”