I hate that feeling--always at five in the morning--when you're laying on the bathroom floor and you know you're going to throw-up but you're not quite there yet. It's like, "Hey stupid stomach...can we get this show on the road already?"
But, on the other hand, that's one plus of being sick as a grown-up--you know that, eventually, it will be over and you'll feel better. Not so the Kiddo, who has to be wondering what the heck is happening to him right now.
Which is to say, we've had the sick at our house this weekend--both the mama (the vomit-y kind) and the baby (the hacking, congested kind). After a five hour nap Saturday afternoon (thank you Sweet Husband) I am on the mend. The Kiddo, not so much yet.
I think there's money to be made in inventing a way to take illness from one person to another. It would be much easier if I could be sick instead. Give me some Sprite and a stack of library books, and I'll endure it cheerfully. Even in the worst conditions, it would be better than watching the Kid battle through it. His croupy cough and sweaty little head are enough to break my heart.
Even still, there's something sweet about it. His whole world is cattywompus. He hurts and he doesn't know why or when it will stop. And in his sad, confused, little state, his comfort objects are a cool drink and his mama and dada. We've taken care of him all of his life, and he trusts that we'll take care of him now. It's not particularly remarkable, but it makes being a human pillow feel very noble, indeed.