Nurse, She's Not

Nausea and parenting are mutually exclusive states. I learned this valuable truth at a much earlier date in my tenure. Check out Wherein I Am Sorely Tried to see what I mean.

However, that was nearly three years ago, and I vaguely remember from my perusal of parenting books that the child is supposed to grow an empathy stash around...what, three? So it seems we're well in the window with her having just turned four.

Apparently not.

Tuesday afternoon I was feeling uncommon tired when I picked her up from school. "Mommy is going to need a nap this afternoon," I announced. "So you're going to have some quiet time."

"Okay, Mommy," she agreed. "Right after my snack and Clifford."

By the time she was sleeping and I was watching Gossip Girl, I could tell something was seriously not right. Because my bouts of barfing are often like a tornado watch in the sense that the townsfolk can see them coming over the hills from miles away, I get a lot more notice, frankly, than I need that my evening is going to end curled on a fuzzy blue mat, staring at linoleum.

Jarrah woke up and asked for more snacks. I provided. I paced from room to room, sensing the inevitable. I paced back into the kitchen. "Mommy, I need more snacks." she reported.

"I'm feeling pretty sick right now. I don't think I can deal with any snacks," I murmured. She gazed at me frankly for about 2 seconds.

"Yeah, I'm hearing 'blah blah blah' and wondering where my snacks are."

Well, she might not have used those words exactly. But she might as well have.

"Did you hear me say I'm not feeling very good?"

"I. NEED. MORE. SNACKS."

I walked out of the room. I wanted to call David but felt strangely unable to pick up the phone. The bed called to me, and as soon as my cheek touched the cool pillow, I knew it was the right decision. I curled in a ball, wracked with shivering. Then there were about three blissful minutes with my eyes shut before the pounding of little feet across the hardwood floor.

"Mommy! Where ARE you?"

"I'm in bed," I whispered. "Not feeling well." The mattress dipped, and my head was roundhouse-kicked from the left side. "OW! You just kicked me!" My stomach lurched. Roundhouse kick from the right side, making good contact with my temple. BLAM! "OWWW! Stop kicking me! I'm sick!"

"Mommy, I'm just having a rest. Now be quiet. You need to rest, too." BLAM! Upper cut punch to my soft bits.

"OWWW! You are really hurting me!" And so it went for the next half an hour or so. I just lay there and took it. I wasn't exactly a worthy opponent. Finally, I heard David's little "Helllooooo!" in the hall.

"Jarrah, go get Daddy." I rasped. She did, since I was so boring and all. As soon as David saw me and I choked out my plight, he tried to corral her away from the bed.

"Mommy's not feeling well--we need to give her some space."

I opened an eye and saw Jarrah doing her Joker face, the corners of her mouth dipping down in a perfect upside-down U. Two fat tears slid down her cheeks. In spite of my agony, my maternal matter was unsettled.

"Awww, sweetie. It's okay. Are you upset?"

"Moooooommmy! I'm worrrrrried about youuuuu!" she sobbed.

Okay, that would have been really sweet, really it would, except I know my kid, and here's the translation:

"Mommy! I thought we had a decent thing going here! I ask for snacks, and seconds later, you deliver them! Now we have this serious lag time interfering, and you're not being at all clear about how long this will be inconveniencing me! And I really can't take that kind of uncertainty, ya know? It gets my chi all out of balance! Now please let's go back to the way things were and never mention this again!"

The rest of the night, David herded her away from the bedroom while they had dinner, a bath and got ready for bed. During that time, I mixed it up a little by hurling my guts out. As I leaned over the bowl, eyes watering, I could hear Jarrah shrieking through the closed bathroom door:

"I'M WORRIED ABOUT MOMMY! I NEED TO HUG HER RIGHT NOW!" There was a tiny part of me that found this sweet and funny. Tiny.

Later, Jarrah made me a "card" that said (purportedly): "Dear Mommy: You have a cold. I am worried about you. You will feel better in 48 minutes. I love you. Get better. Jarrah."

I also got a lot of extremely agonizing hugs and some more kicks to the head.

It's good to be needed. Except when it's not.