Last night my house became a vomitorium. (The fake definition. Not the real one which innocuously means a type of passageway.)
As I helped Anna throw up into a bowl, instead of being repulsed or annoyed or bothered, I found myself grateful. I’m so grateful that, unlike 20 sets of parents in Connecticut, I can wake up in the night and help my little girl when she’s sick.
I spent a lot of my day yesterday envisioning Anna at school…
Thinking of her in her classroom. The Christmas decorations. The energy her class must have been feeling at the approach of the holiday break. Laughter and chatter. Vibrancy and innocence. Bright eyes and curiosity and sweet, high pitched voices.
I was tempted not to post anything about this, because I don’t want to exacerbate anyone’s grief with my own. At the same time, there is something powerful in solidarity. There is a power in knowing that so many people are so deeply troubled–that so many of us feel this so deeply. The horror. The shock. The pain at a loss of innocence. We all mourn this together.
There is something to be said for that.
In the meantime, I will nurse my sick girls (including Lolly) and be grateful to have them, and grateful that in the middle of the night my daughter could wake me up and say “daddy my tummy hurts” and I could hug her and say “it’s okay” and help her as she threw up, and then let her sleep by my bed until she felt better.