Special thanks to Daniel Tiger, Dinosaur Train, and Mr Topham Hatt
(Fair warning: I mention stomach virus stuff in here. Nothing graphic.)
I get Munchausen by proxy now, I thought to myself. The baby was curled up against me on the couch, tiny spoon. "Lie down with me," he had whined, and I happily complied, while Daniel Tiger or Dinosaur Train droned on. He hadn't thrown up in a day by that point, and I loved how he'd learned that having his back gently scritched helped him feel better, the way he'd plant himself face-down and whine into the couch, "Scritch me."
I scritched him, I laid down with him, I big-spooned him and put the blanket on him just right. I also held the bowl for him while he barfed, and hosed us off when he missed. (This isn't to say that my husband wasn't there for all of this. Every night once the baby was asleep, between his jags of fitful crying from the crib, I'd reach across the couch for his wrist and say, "I love you," meaning "I love you" but also "we made it through another day" and "I'm glad it's us.")
He's always been an easy baby when he's sick. He plays through fevers and colds, maybe snuggling and moaning a little when the Tylenol wears off, but another dose—taken happily—and he's back to playing. But not this week. This week was karma, or genetics, my sensitive stomach now his, bugs that last so much longer than common sense or the pediatrician says they should. This happened when he was eight months old, norovirus twice in five weeks, 36 hours in the clear and then another barf. We're not eating mango again for a little while.
He's been back at school for three days now and I'm sure I'm jinxing it to say he's been making it through his full days there fine—a little tired but apparently eating, thank god for peer pressure and routine and teachers who won't, as I will, pick him up to slow dance in the hallway (why the hallway? that's what he asks for) when the first bite of a meal makes his stomach cramp. At least I think that's what's happening. His face crumples and he reaches for me."Hallway." And I pick him up and his body goes heavy and loose, and we sway for a while, and sometimes I do it so I can look down at my phone, and then it passes and we go back to the highchair for another sip of nondairy milk, another bite of the Trader Joe's pumpkin bread that's his favorite thing in the world, but that this morning only warranted four bites, and that includes taking it along on the drive to school.
I don't want him to be sick. I don't want him to be suffering, I don't want him to be miserable, I don't want his face to crumple and turn red at every small challenge. (I know, in a lot of ways him sick is just toddler.) The snuggles were good but he was feeling better then anyway. (It's all recovery, just uneven.) Besides, I get to snuggle him plenty when he's well, the bedtime books and his hand lightly on my leg or arm when he sits next to me, sometimes he plays with my hair when I hold him. I don't need him to be sick for that. It's been good practice, for the very gentle steering us around tantrums (You sound really upset right now, this isn't what you want to be happening, right?), for working through my anxiety about stomach viruses (four days of eating half rations sure didn't help my fortitude). But I hate it and I want it to be done.
I know toddlers take longer than you think they will to recover from stomach bugs. I know it could take a week or two more for him to get his whole appetite back (and then, I know, he'll be ravenous). Soon after, I hope, he'll get his belly back, too. (This was poor timing to try taking him up a size in pull-ups.) And I know this is just what life is, illness and care and suffering and things being hard for a while. It sucked when it was raining, when stroller walks in the park were one of the only things that calmed him. It sucks now that the weather is autumn-perfect and I feel like I can't enjoy it at all. What if I'm missing the one perfect week? I guess that's what life is, missing the one perfect week of weather because you're the person who can slow-dance your child through his stomachache aftershocks, because as soon as you do his little pained body will relax.
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