I am not at Coco's eating pancakes with whipped butter. I am at my kitchen table. I am not on my way to Disneyland, as planned, with family. I am at my kitchen table. We are in throw-up land. The past 4 1/2 years, somehow, throw-up land has been a far off place. But now we know all about going there every 20 minutes til 4 a.m. and every 45 minutes after that. So while Silas lies on the couch watching Toy Story 2, I sit at my kitchen table with coffee, a piece of toast with almond butter, honey and banana, and a glass of water.
What I marveled at throughout the night, besides the persistence of Silas's little body to expunge whatever it's trying to expunge, was, once again, how quickly Ben and I wanted to *fix* it. We tried to name it -- food poisoning? flu? Rota virus? We lay in the dead of night googling symptoms. We looked for pepto bismol under the sink (which clearly wouldn't have stayed down). We tried to plan for today and mentally reorganize it before we even knew what the morning would bring. In between the floating dreams of light sleep and kneeling next to Silas, we tried to figure out how to fix this.
We do have a LOT of information. And a LOT of bottles of pink and purple medicine in the pediatric aisle at the drugstore. And we do feast off of instant-gratification much of our days. So it makes sense, I suppose, that our gut impulse is to get up and DO.
But, of course, there is nothing to do.
So Ben and Eden have left for Coco's and Disneyland, and Silas and I are sitting in our little house, watching and waiting, and not doing.