I started my day with vomit. Lucia nudged me awake and said, "Mommy, I'm going to be sick." And then she puked all over my shirt. After, we were lying down on the bed—new sheets, new clothes, both of us smelling of soap—whispering odd nothings and then she fell back asleep.
I looked at her face and remembered a time when I would panic at the slightest sneeze, a weird sounding cough, a rash. Now, when something like this happens, I am suddenly the epitome of expertise and nonchalance:
- Oh, she puked liquid-y phlegm, not food. The vomit doesn't even smell sour. She's fine. I should teach her how to expectorate.
- I should teach her the word "expectorate".
- Oh, I think Gaston (from Beauty and the Beast) already did that.
- She's sleeping again. I should try to sleep again, too.
- Do we have enough food in the freezer to last till Saturday?
She woke up a few hours later to puke again. We stayed in bed after, again, but stayed awake. And that's when she asked the question.
I was suddenly the epitome of panic and fear and...righteous anger, I'm gonna say?
Mommy, do you love my Daddy?
... (...)* ((...))** (((...)))*** No.
But why?
...Because I love myself now.
Can I still love Daddy?
Of course.
I love you.
I love you.
*Will I tell her the truth? CAN SHE HANDLE THE TRUTH?!?!?!
**I should probably just use the whole "in a different way" template. All single parents do, right?
***Damnit, I'm just going to tell her the truth.
She let the futility of my answer pass, but I expect more probing questions in the future.
I'm just doing the best I can, you know?
For now, my darling, know that there is a wealth of meaning behind that brevity. And a whole lot of love.
There is nothing but love, actually. For me. For you. Always for you.
And then I vomit.
