When I was in high school, I spent an evening babysitting the four or five kids of some family friends. The older ones had gone to bed and I stayed up watching a movie and holding the baby, who was probably a year old. He snuggled into my neck and fell asleep on my chest.
I think that was the moment--when I knew I should put him down in his crib but just couldn't because he was so warm and soft and sweet and tiny--that I knew I wanted babies of my own. I had always kind of assumed I'd be a mother, eventually, one day, when I grew up and stuff, but that night I realized there was nothing I wanted more out of life than my own happy little family.
My little brother came home from his mission on Thursday, and the whole family had planned to spend Saturday and Sunday up at the padres'. We were going to belatedly celebrate Christmas together and listen to Sam speak in church. He would get to spend some time with his nieces (two of whom he'd never met) and we'd all get to enjoy one another's company.
But then the vomiting started.
Friday night around 9 it hit me. Hard. Mila started up around midnight. The two of us spent the whole night alternately huddled over the toilet, crying over a bowl, calling for Daddy to come take care of us, or snuggled in a blanket on the couch waiting for death.
Needless to say we did not drive up to the 'slow the next morning.
My parents and an aunt and uncle were hit with the same bug around the same time. David came down with a milder (but still pretty tragic) version Saturday evening. Far as I know, we've all spent the last 72 hours or so napping and doing laundry and trying to fill our empty bellies with ginger ale and crackers. It hasn't been pretty but I suppose it could have been much worse.
Mila is feeling much better, and it seems David is too. Perhaps it's because I'm pregnant, but I feel like I'm taking longer to fully recover than they are. Maybe I'm just feeling extra sorry for myself. At any rate, I'm glad we're recuperating so soon. Like I said, it could've been worse.
Last night, though, Mila did not want to go to bed. She was "s'eepy" and wanted to take a "nap" but every time I put her in bed she would cry. I couldn't blame her; she'd thrown up so many times she probably didn't want to be in her room alone and risk it happening again. So I brought her out to the living room so we could "'nuggle" on the couch.
She nestled into my arms, her eyes focused on nothing. I watched her twist her little fingers together and kick her foot restlessly back and forth. I smoothed her hair and stroked her velvety cheeks and watched as her delicate eyelashes fluttered open and closed. She'd look up at me now and then and grin, then gradually drift back into almost-sleep.
As I held her close--my warm, soft, sweet tiny girl--I remembered that night so many years ago and I knew: even after a ruined weekend full of sickness and crying and not enough sleep, I've got everything I ever wanted.
I am so blessed.