That time Baby K had the stomach bug

Fair warning: This post is about vomit. Lots and lots and lots of vomit. I never thought I would be the kind of mom who openly posted about my child's bodily fluids. I also never thought I'd be the kind of mom to want a mini van, either. But something about having three just changes all your plans. Now I stop at an intersection next to a shiny Chrysler Pacifica and can hear her siren's song calling to me. The cargo room. The automatic doors. The captain chairs to separate the siblings. The potential to have a car that doesn't smell like a weird mix of chlorine and cheese.

But back to the vomit. This baby right here, we call her our angel baby:

She has her moments of sass and spunk, but mostly she is all light and joy. An angel wrapped up in little curls and a love of snuggling.

Sunday, though, Sunday was not her best day. It was a weekend full of birthday parties, little brother's cake, and anything she could hoard from the pinata. She was that kind of crazy only a 2 year old jacked up on social interaction  and tootsie rolls can be.

So when we finally got her - and her siblings - down on Sunday night we breathed a sigh of relief. We had survived another birthday party weekend and were now on complete autopilot. Not an hour later, ten minutes into the episode of The Office we were watching for the 95th time because we have no brain power to focus on new shows, we heard her door open. We both yelled "not it"  for putting her back to bed - as grown ups do - and waited to hear the excuse of why she was up.

Usually, we are immediately accosted with a litany of reasons she can't be asleep. She needs water. The temperature isn't perfect. She decided she actually wants the first pair of pjs I showed her five hours ago. She doesn't want to. Instead, we were greeted with silence. Eerie, terrifying, "why is my never-silent two year old quiet" kind of silence. The last time she was this quiet she had painted her hands red and then stamped our guest bathroom in some sort of macabre toddler art sure to terrify any visitors.

So we stared at her - a little bit hoping she was sleepwalking,  silently willing her to return to her bedroom - and she stared back. Silently she stared back while the only noise in the house was Michael Scott explaining about rabies and bat birth control.

And then she made that face - that face that every parent knows is about to mean a minimum 24 hour family quarantine and trips to the grocery store solely for Lysol and saltines. In an instant, we were both up and sprinting for the stairs as she peered over from the upstairs walkway. While I screamed "go to the bathroom" and RB screamed "cover your mouth," she meekly let out "Kay Kay tummy hurt."

Those were her final words before - instead of turning around and walking three feet to the bathroom - she took two steps forward and threw up over the balcony. Over. The. Balcony. We were halfway to the stairs when it happened and both of us just stopped dead in our tracks, watching it happen, powerless to do anything except shudder and question every life choice we had made up to this point. Her little curls bouncing between the banisters. The floor in front of the stairs now a hazard zone. Both of us too stunned to react as our heads bobbed between the now soaked second floor walkway and the floor below it. My sugar and sweet, always wanting everything organized and cleaned, dainty child had just ensured she made two separate floors complete toxic messes.

She finished up while RB and I stood numbly waiting for the splash zone to be cleared - unable to get up the stairs without an umbrella. And she wrapped up and stepped back and said sweetly "Kay Kay wash hands then watch a movie." Proving that 1 - she has this sick drill down and 2 - she clearly does actually know where her bathroom is.

RB looked around, sighed, and muttered "forever unclean," because he handles stress with cultural references. I sprinted up the stairs to check temperatures and snuggle her, leaving him with the mop and bucket because I handle stress with outsourcing.

After a while she was back asleep, snuggled into our bed, while the movie she requested played quietly in the background. RB came upstairs, whispered "you owe me," and fell asleep. I texted my sister and she wrote back immediately summing up both this particular incident and parenthood in general: "I don't know if I should laugh or be horrified."

"Probably both" I said. "Probably both."

Growing up

Last night at the pool, you spotted a little girl in the deep end who looked roughly your age. You walked over, excitedly, introduced yourself, and you two began playing in earnest. At least, I assumed you introduced yourself. I wasn't there. I was in the shallow end, watching this change in you - this venturing into the world by yourself - unable to hear your words but watching your body language with anticipation. I saw you two clasp hands and jump into the deep end. Your laugh echoed as you came up for air and swam to the ladder. We have worked on this all summer - the diving and deep end adventures without fear. There have been tears and prayers and stomping feet but now, here you were, jumping with all the joy that summer in childhood brings. You were carefree and brave, not once looking around to make sure I was close.

Several months ago, you hosted your first sleepover. One of your oldest friends - as old as they can be when you are only six - showing up with her sleeping bag in hand and dreams of the night as large as your own. There were crafts and snacks and two pairs of feet running from your bedroom to the basement over and over, only pausing long enough to ask where something was before you continued on your way. I sat downstairs after your sister and brother had gone to bed - and long after you should have gone to bed - listening to the two of you in your room. Quiet voices interrupted by belly laughs every few minutes - the kind that cause tears to roll down your faces and your whole body to bend over with each new spurt of laughter. I longed to hear what you were saying. To know what tickled your heart so. To be a part of it. But I knew, too, that this is what you needed. Time to be a little girl with your own friends. To navigate relationships and independence and start to build this beautiful life that lies ahead for you.

This is what your daddy and I are working for every day - that you would grow up to be strong and brave, a lover of life and Jesus, ready to set out into the world when it is your time. We talk about the years being short and the 18 summers we are allotted and so often it feels like that focus is on us soaking up as much of you as possible. Smelling your baby head, memorizing your toddler turns of phrase, relishing in your pre-k imagination. But really these 18 years are less about us soaking you up and more about us pouring into you. These years are our time to help shape you and guide you, install in you the values and traditions and love we hope you carry with you for the rest of your life.

So when we see you jump into the deep end, our hearts soar with pride. When we hear you laugh unabashedly with your bestest of friends, our hearts are full with your happiness. But I stand in the shallow end and my arms feel empty without you in them, the one I have held first and for six summers. And I sit in the den and realize this is one of the first times I haven't been in on the joke with you, the one who it feels like I have shared every secret and laugh and detail of life with up until now.

And I know this is how it is supposed to be. I know deep down this means on some level we are getting things right. We are making mistakes daily and constantly seeking more guidance and praying for discernment, but somewhere something is going right. So we watch you grow with pride and excitement. And we feel each step you take away from us with nostalgia and longing. And we love you, baby girl, each step of the way.

Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it. - Proverbs 22:6

Thanks to Carrie Gantt photography for the beautiful pictures!