I’ve scrubbed my hands so many times today that I’m fairly certain I’m now missing fingerprints.
I spent the day with an 8 year old and her stomach bug.
It seems that my youngest daughter can catch the stomach flu from a symptomatic stranger who looks at her funny from 100 yards away. She has had the stomach bug so many times in her short, little life that one might actually refer to her as a professional worshiper of the Porcelain God. It’s so sad to standby and watch her go through this same awful routine every single time the bug begins to spread. And yet sometimes I wonder.
Sometimes I wonder if this is my daughter’s ingenious (albeit painful) way of saying, “Slow down. What’s the rush? Where are you going? Why are you in such a hurry?” We are always on the go, always rushing from one place to the next, one activity to another. Sometimes I forget that she’s eight. Sometimes I forget that she likes her downtime. Sometimes I forget that she really loves time to snuggle and sometimes I forget that she won’t always really love to snuggle. Sometimes I think she sacrifices herself to ‘the bug’ so that I’ll stop and remember – remember that she’ll never again be as little as she is today.
Sometimes my little Porcelain God worshiper knows exactly how to stop me in my tracks so that I will remember. I suppose that is the happy silver lining in the lysol-coated cloud.