barf out

People who know me really well know that nothing freaks me out more than puke. I'm not suggesting that anyone enjoys throwing up, but I absolutely fear it. I would rather writhe around in agony than face that bowl. Before I gave birth, my biggest fear about labor was throwing up during transition. I was more afraid of puking than not using drugs.

That said, when Eliana woke up crying in the middle of the night, sour vomit all over her crib, caked in her hair, and soaking her sleepy sack, I was pretty damn upset. It took me a minute to get over my issues and step up to the mommy plate. I didn't have much time to process until she started heaving again, this time all over the floor and futon in her room. Poor, sweet chicken.

I'll spare you the rest of the details. Already I feel gross and weird even writing about my most dreaded bodily function. But I'll tell ya what. The body is pretty amazing in figuring out how to rid us of toxins. And little Elie's cuerpita is no exception.

I'm pretty certain she had a reaction to a veggie dog I gave her for lunch. That's just my gut feeling (pun intended). I'm really not into fake protein - I'd take a steak any day - but for whatever reason, the damn soy dogs called my name in the market. It seemed like a good way to "beef up" Eliana's protein intake. Bad move, mom. And while we can't be certain, let's just say that Lucy will be enjoying some lovely fake wieners in her bowl this week.

But the point of the post isn't the puke. It's my little brave heart. Do you know that she never cried, even though we were up for hours, up until she had emptied every single last crumb in her belly. She was so sensitive, that just moving her position in my arms would ignite another expulsion. So she sat in my arms, me holding her still seated on the edge of the tub, us both in this middle of the night, sicked out haze. She was so still. So strong. So cooperative.

We'd have these moments where we'd be standing over the sink, looking into the bathroom mirror. Even though she does look an awful lot like my husband, I saw the way we had the same look in our eyes. This look of perseverance, of exhaustion, of trying to press on through en route to the other side.

In that mirrored reflection, I felt the incredible strength of our connection. I felt the infinite capacity I have to comfort her. All she wanted was to be held by me. In my arms, she knew that she could get through it. Even though I was scared and worried and feeling rather helpless myself, I was somehow giving her the courage she needed to stay strong.

I guess it's good that I haven't weaned her considering all she's taken in today has been breast milk. She's just wanted to be held and we regressed, together, into the time when she was a little, tiny baby. She fell asleep on my breast and in my arms like she used to. I held her an extra long time and rubbed her cheeks and got lost in her eyelashes like the old days. This afternoon she was super tired, but wouldn't let me leave her alone in the crib. Even though I nursed her to sleep, the minute I put her down she would wake up.

So I made us a bed on the futon and somehow got us in this spooning sort of position, all snugly under the fleece blankie. Anyone who has an active toddler can attest that the notion of snuggling, let alone spooning, for more than a few minutes seems ludicrous. But we stayed like that the two of us, her so still and content (and big!) in my arms, me so glad to have a moment to close my eyes, feel her breath, and be present, even when faced with a sea of muck.