I awoke, last night, to my daughter crying. Thinking it was a periodic nightmare, I climbed out of bed and made my way to her room. Earlier this year, we put together a loft bed, that my wife and my daughter had purchased last year. It's the kind with a desk beneath the bed, overhead. I'm sure it will come in handy when she goes off to college fourteen years from now. The bed is so high, that only my six year old daughter can sit up in bed. I have learned - beware the popcorn ceiling!
"What's wrong honey." I asked, climbing up the metal ladder to her bed.
I began crawling towards her, but stopped. Her comforter was all wet.
"Why is your comforter all wet?" I asked. The air above her bed had a sort of spicy, rankness to it.
"I threw up" she said, inbetween sobs.
"Oh honey..." I sympathized, quietly lifting my hands off the surface.
I pulled the comforter towards me, bundling it up so I could bring it down to wash. I had thought changing the sheets on a loft bed was difficult. It was nothing compared with trying to man-handle a wet, possibly laden, comforter down a small metal ladder.
I succeeded and carefully laid the comforter on her floor. I rushed out to the kitchen to get her the "bedside companion" - Tupperware. I've always wondered what is the best shape for such a task; square? circular? shallow or deep dish? I grabbed a bowl shaped lettuce keeper and flew back to my daughter's room.
"Hold on honey, I'm on my way" I blurted as I entered her room; hoping to sound reassuring.
I checked her other blankets and they seemed OK. My daughter was curled up into a ball, moaning to herself. I began to worry that maybe it was something worse.
"how are you feeling?" I asked tenderly. I am so skillful at this.
"My tummy hurts" she said as she burst into sobs again, moaning.
"Oh honey." I continued. I caressed the hair out of her eyes and checked her temperature. "how long have you been throwing up?"
"All night, I think" she said.
All night! I thought. Egad!
"Can you get me a Kleenex?" she asked.
I rushed back down and went to get her a little Seven-Up, warm washcloth and a Kleenex. I hurried back and set down the pop on her dresser. Climbing up, I offered her the washcloth.
"Where's the Kleenex?" she said.
Oh man! I forgot the one thing she asked for. Scurrying back down, I rushed out for Kleenex. As I did, I heard that sound that no one likes to hear. I detoured back to the kitchen to get a clean Tupperware. Luckily we had another green bowl-shaped lettuce keeper.
After I switched Tupperware and she'd cleaned up a bit, I grabbed several clean blankets and placed a bath towel over her pillows, for her to rest her head on. We lay a bit. I cuddled her up in the warm blankets and reassured her it would be all right. I offered to read to her, and climbed down. I sat in the chair in her room; lit by a small light.
I began reading one of her "Lizzie B. Jones" books.
"I hate you tummy" she declared; half angry, half tired.
"Oh, I'm so sorry honey. it will get better. I know it's tough, but soon you'll feel better." I reassured her. I could tell she detested being sick.
Half a chapter later, her little, drowsy girl voice murmered one more time "I don't like this. I hate you tummy"
Then she slept.
