"Jen?"
"Mm-wha?"
"It's Sprite."
"Wha?"
"She threw up. Come on!"
My eyes stayed shut as I followed John to Sprite's room. It was too dark to be coherent.
The smell hit me first. She really was sick. I opened my eyes to see Sprite sitting up in bed, softly moaning her stomach's protests.
John and I moved immediately as a team, one changing and consoling our daughter, the other swapping out her sheets, taking away the sick and bringing in the clean smell of laundered cotton.
"She was fine at bedtime," he murmured, trying to keep her head clear of her dirty nightgown while getting it over her head.
"Yeah, but I heard some of the parents at daycare saying their kids had come down with a 24 hour stomach bug and it started just like this."
"I'd appreciate a warning next time though."
(John's words have been repeated time and again by hapless parents who can only react to a 24 hour bug. These micro-viruses spring themselves out when they're least expected, the only warning being moments prior when a young child's stomach gurgles and you get a courtesy "I don't feel so good". Sometimes, you don't even get that. At least with colds, you have a day or so to build up to the main event, plan ahead for what you need to do. These intestinal maladies? It's fight or flight and you have two seconds to get your head in the game or your furniture and floors will be down for the count. The kids may be suffering through the bug, but it takes the parents down as well when it disrupts routines and you become home base a/k/a security blanket for little Susie until she begins to feel normal again.)
"Should we give her anything?" I asked, her soiled linens grasped at an arm's length. (I'm not good with vomit, whether or not it's my own child's.)
"No, just swish her mouth out and have her come down a bit. Hopefully, this is just a one time upset." John took her to do just that and brought her back a little more calm and ready for sleep.
"Are we keeping her home tomorrow?" Thoughts of Sprite missing meeting Santa, who was making an appearance at her daycare, ran through my head. The poor kid had been looking forward to it. Would she still get the gift we had sent in ahead of time for Santa to take the credit for? Would we get our five bucks back for the picture that never happened?
"Hopefully, she'll be fine. If it happens again, we'll keep her home."
We tucked her in and retreated once more to our room, the clock reminding us that we had to be up in four hours.
As soon as I settled in though, I could hear the coughing and gagging on the monitor. She was sick again. "John, I hear her."
Again, we rushed to her room, this time John stripping her down for an impromptu bath as I raided her sheet supply once more. (Anyone in our family still want an idea for Sprite's Christmas gift? We need toddler sheets apparently..) We moved in fast rhythm, plopping her back into bed once more.
Forty-five minutes later, "Daaaaaddyyyyyyy!"
"She's staying home," John mentioned, tucking a thrice cleaned Sprite into our bed for some late night Mickey cartoons, and grabbing his wallet for a 3 AM run to Walmart, pedialyte the only thing on his list as I placed a call to my boss's voicemail, the infrequent but still guilt inducing requirement of a working mother .
Sprite seemed to be in a better mood and we fell asleep together, lulled by the soft sounds of the television.
The sunlight woke me up. I lay there for a second thinking I was late, then felt a small foot in my back. Oh. Yeah.
I snuggled her warm body, "Hi there. Feeling better?"
She smiled back, "Yes."
I hugged her once more. She hadn't complained since the last time we'd cleaned her up. Maybe this 24 hour bug was almost over. (Okay, I HOPED it was almost over. How long do 24 hour bugs get counted for? From the time they actually begin or the time you first notice they're there? I was praying we had experienced virus's grand finale.)
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, I want a pancake."
John shrugged, overhearing. "You can try it, see if she keeps it down."
Going about the morning routine as if the last 8 hours had never happened, I fed her pedialyte and a waffle. Her spirits were fine. Her attitude was fine. It was going to be a rare free day of cartoons, drawing, and-
"Jen! Get over here!"
I ran to the kitchen where Sprite cried out in horror, her hands trying to comb her hair out of her messy face, her breakfast on the floor, and John standing in front of her, his work clothes baptized by her stomach's refusal to play by the rules.
It never happened again after that mishap. I gingerly rationed out the pedialyte for her throughout the morning, refusing to give her anything else while John finally got himself cleaned off and to work. Wanting to keep her in one spot and her system from being bounced around by the usual toddler antics, I played any Disney movie she wanted, allowing her a late lunch of crackers, always on the watch for the big bad bug to repeat itself.
By dinnertime, she was gunning for chicken nuggets and trying to mount Blue. "Ride like the wind, Bullseye!" she crowed. (Toy Story would be proud.) I finally let my guard down, sure she would be back in school the next day, just in time to join her classmates in performing their holiday show.
I'm hopeful that this 24 hour bug doesn't decide to come back for an encore during their "Jingle Bells" routine or the "Hey!" will be a lot more heartfelt and may involve finger pointing.