puke

OK, here's a pretty basic axiom of parenting young children: any night that you can go without having your children shower you with vomit is a pretty good night.

Last night was not so much a good night, as say, one where I had to debate between getting a few extra minutes of sleep (by toweling myself off and crawling back into bed smelling of said vomit) and taking a quick shower.

I chose the former, probably to the dismay of my wife.

Then again, I had been up with my son for about three or four hours prior to this incident. Worrying about what his complaints of stomach pain meant, whether I was giving him the right medicine, whether this was some kind of new manifestation of some food intolerances. Checking the internet for signs of how we'd know if it were appendicitis or an ulcer or the more common NAPS (Neurotically Anxious Parent Syndrome).

Interestingly enough, this child who was up half the night with stomach complaints, perked right up after spewing the contents of his stomach onto me. So much so, in fact, that he refused to go back to sleep and ultimately convinced me to let him go downstairs to watch "Disney channel."

So I escorted him downstairs, turned on the channel of the much beloved programs, and pondered the whole shower decision as I walked upstairs. But turning around briefly to check on him one more time, seeing the look of joy on his face as he followed the antics of Mickey and Co., I had the experience of feeling immense love for someone who had just filled my senses with the sounds and smells of stomach acid.

And as fatigue set heavily upon me, I prayed that my wife could find the same graciousness for me.