I’m home from work today with a sick little boy. The Little Man showed no signs of being sick when he woke up this morning. I was downstairs getting some things ready and heard him calling. I went upstairs and he was sitting there with a slightly confused look on his face. He was shivering slightly.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, just shivered some more. About a second later I realized what was about to happen, but it was too late. All the milk the Little Man had consumed was transferred from his stomach to the bed. He took that one in stride, though it meant virtually burning the sheets. The next time upset him. And the time after that got him really worked up. I think it was because there was nothing left in his tiny little stomach.
He is calm now, sitting on the couch, watching Chuggington. Meanwhile, I’ll be home with him all day today. Hopefully he’ll be feeling better soon. He looks just so pathetic looming over a little bucket.
The funny thing is that I keep having these flashbacks to when I was a kid getting sick like that. I hated getting sick. (Today, it’s not the getting sick part I mind so much as the nausea, which I can’t stand.) I can clearly remember occasions when I was green around the gills, couldn’t keep anything down and would have to stay home from school. My parents were like ministering angels. Now I’m in the parent role and realize just how difficult it can be to maintain the air of ministering angel under the circumstances.