Silence and Motherly Pride

It’s been awhile for me. Usually I write once or twice a week so going almost 2 weeks without an entry is long. It’s not writer’s block. Sometimes silence is more pregnant than the prolific periods. When you ride a roller coaster, you might have the presence of mind to snap a picture to share while making the steep climb up or even at the highest point before the fall. But when you go down or around a sharp bend, you usually hang on for dear life. You scream and don’t think much about sharing at the moment. It’s scary and thrilling. While others can appreciate the pictures you did snap, they can only fully appreciate it all when they ride the ride themselves. For those of you who have strapped yourselves in beside us, thanks for riding along. It saves us the trouble of having to recreate what often feels so inexplicable.

And sometimes we don’t want to recreate. Like a dear friend I deeply respect who also blogs proposed, there are things in life worthy of keeping in relative silence. She wrote, “As much as I have written about him, I just can’t write about this.  It feels sacred and private.  We have grief..and we have peace.” Silences can be sacred.

Now that there is a little level ground, back to writing! 🙂 This morning I felt the great swell of motherly pride. To what do I owe this tremendous feeling of joy, accomplishment and intense satisfaction? Connor puked in the toilet. Um, really, that’s why? Yes, really!! Of course, it’s why!!

The poor guy has been sick since Sunday. He had already vomited in the middle of the night all over his bedspread which I discovered in half-dazed stupor after my hand became intimately connected to regurgitated noodles. After that, whenever he complained of his stomach hurting, I half-heartedly suggested he go to the bathroom and vomit in the toilet. It was more like my wanton expression of silly hopes and dreams all the while accepting the more likely outcome of projectile puke all over the living room couch like the great (as in massive not joyous) Ethan vomit of 2009. Putting a bowl for vomit by the bed is as useful as the decorative throw pillows that usually don the sleeping quarters. Neither serve a real purpose. They never get used but are mere props that just make us feel better. My instructions to a sick preschooler were in the same category.

Or so I thought. Connor had been complaining off and on that his stomach hurt this morning. I wondered if he was milking the opportunity to continue using me as his pack mule. He does have legs but since Sunday has rarely used them. Instead, he has been my gym membership for the past two days. I carried his 35+ pound body up and down our stairs and from the car to the park gym to drop off Ethan for camp. I should look like Hulk Hogan by now. Instead of bulging muscles, perhaps a more accurate picture would be me wearing a sign that says “duped and indulging Mom” as I deposited him back on the couch. Curbside service here!

How poor Connor has spent his days recently

While I’m recovering from the most strenuous exercise this sedentary body knows, he suddenly gets up, says he thinks he has to vomit, and waddles dutifully to the bathroom. I shake off the shock and follow him in, raise the lid, and almost clap my hands when he pitifully does his duty. I can’t help but beam and tell him how proud I am that he is puking like a big boy…IN THE POTTY (and not on the bedspread or all over the living room especially on the dry clean only useless throw pillows and blanket)! I remember my past days of stomach woes and how as an adult I’ll do anything and everything in my power to avoid that dreadful act. And there he was, doing it like a champ, and putting up with my cheers of pride. Instead of expecting a medal, he just waddles back to the couch while I follow and contain my victory dance urges. Flush. And it’s done. For that, I will gladly be Mommy pack mule for another day or two.

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