It’s 3 AM and I know I should be sleeping. I know that 5:30 is not that far away, and even if I do manage to sleep between now and then that it won’t be enough, but it would be something.
Instead, I’m doing this. I’m typing. Thinking. Floating in a space between an adrenaline laced marathon runner and a permanently exhausted mom that just assumes sleep deprivation is normal.
I know that it won’t be long before I’ll hear a grumble, then a cry, then I’ll grab him and run to the bathroom before he barfs all over everything. Yup, that is what I’m waiting for. I’m encouraged that tonight we have not covered the bed in vomit a single time, and that is victory.
He’s snoring and I’m restless, and he’s hugging onto me because his tummy aches and he doesn’t understand why. I’m wishing I could explain it to him in a better way than “tummy ouch barf *points to puddle on floor* in potty *points to toilet*”
Seven unsuccessful attempts to explain this.
Note: being an English major does not help facilitate toddler communication.
His little hug right now is the greatest small concession for the hours of puking. Little chubby fingers holding onto my arm and baby breaths across my shoulder are everything.
His second birthday is in a couple of weeks, and I haven’t spent a single minute scanning Pinterest for party ideas. I’m not crafty enough to make Mickey Mouse paraphernalia, or spendy enough to purchase it.
I just want a little gathering with family where he blows out candles and gets to do something he normally doesn’t get to do. I want him to have an experience, like last years trip to the beach.
I want him to know that I will always choose hugging him and watching him laugh over hot gluing my fingers together and cursing at my inability to recreate a picture I’ve seen after not reading the instructions.
I want him to know I will always snuggle with him and kiss away exhaustion that comes along with a tummy ache.
I want him to know that even though my face may pout, and I may groan, I will always choose to hug him and let him barf down my back mildly aiming toward the toilet, versus letting him be scared while he pukes.
This is what I can give to him, and I secretly worry that it’s not enough.