'My Tummy Hurt!'

It went like this:
After a long day of worrying about the car nearly breaking in half, the checking account virtually exploding, and family woes out the wazzoo, it turns out I've also got a sick little girl on top of it.  This morning when Emilia woke up, she kept telling me that her tummy hurt.  'My tummy hurt, mama!'  But apart from that, she appeared to be normal.  And as we sat down to breakfast (just plain toast with butter), I should have known.  When Emilia starts recounting all of the locations where she has thrown-up, it typically means that she is getting ready to do it again.  ('I throw up in New Jersey!  I throw up in Oregon!'  'Yes, and you've also thrown up in Maine, Washington DC, Las Vegas, California, Utah, and the whole of Washington State!')  She had one little bite of toast -- and thar she blows, as they say.  But after that, she seemed to feel great.

This is why I thought it would be fine to take her to the library to pick up our books that were on hold.  And nearly five minutes from the library, she says, 'my tummy hurt.  I don't feel good.'  Don't worry, she didn't throw up in the car, or the library, for that matter.  Even though I had to run her to the bathroom as fast as I could, because she was threatening to do so.  And she didn't throw up when we ran into QFC to get carrots for dinner.  And she didn't even throw up when we were home and I was trying to figure out some sort of non-hurling-inducing lunch for her.  Instead, she laid on the kitchen floor with her favorite blanket, sipping a grapefruit fizzy drink, and discussing the many merits of both Frosty and Rudolph.  Then she declared that pasta with butter and parmesan ought to be alright, and so we had that for lunch.

It was only after lunch, after she got a thermometer in the rear (oh, how I hate that job), and we read books and got her all snug in her bed for a nap.  That's when it happened.  All was quiet, I had just poured a cup of tea, got my box of See's out, and was heading toward the study when I heard it.  The poor girl was violently throwing up in her bed -- all over every scrap of bedding she had, her hair, her ears, and everything.  All but her stuffed friends, whom I managed to get out in the nick of time.  And so, I stripped her down, plonked her little self in the shower, scrubbed her down, lotioned her up, blew her hair dry, brushed her teeth, tossed her bedding in the washer, scrubbed her wall and carpet, put clean sheets on, convinced her that her other blankets, while not the most desirable, would in fact be just fine for nap-time, gave her a drink, and plonked her back in bed.  And apart from crying over her sodden blanket, she was fine. 

Why am I recounting this for you?  I'm not really sure.  But there it is, and now you know.