After we cleaned her up as best as was possible at one a.m. and changed the sheets, we went back to bed and I thought, yes, alright, fine, this is even worth all the vomit in the world.
She threw up again that night. And we were out of sheets so we went downstairs. We had no other choice.
I went to get my hair cut by the lovely B., and felt refreshed and renewed.
I came home to find Laura and Cyd sleeping on the couch.
A few minutes after my return, Cyd was vomiting again. This time, it was the yellow, putrid kind.
I won't go on and on about how much vomiting happened that day (five incidents - three of which were the projectile kind), but suffice it say that we have been doing laundry around the clock.
Because of her fever and weakness and beautiful dependence on moi, I spent the entire day holding her and kissing the top of her vomit-smelling head, and felt completely at peace. And when she looked up at me with her feverish eyes and whispered, "Mommy, my tummy hurts", my heart broke in at least two pieces and I felt like I would do anything to make it better so she could be back to her boisterous, precocious, house-destroying, semi-independent self, while another part of me wanted to keep her just as she was, warm and cuddly and needy, so I could hold her in my arms forever. I could handle the smell. And frankly, there was a lot less clean up in this scenario. If you can imagine that.