Today, for instance, I got to spend the whole day playing nursemaid to my little boy. And let's just say that more vomit was involved. Like, a lot more. And unlike Ruby Jane (who got it over with in one fell swoop and then seemed none the worse for wear), LM wailed and writhed throughout the majority of his ordeal. Oh, and there was no hubby here to help this time. Dang.
So I washed soiled bedding, fetched cool drinks...and hot ones, rubbed his back and belly, administered medicine, cooed comforting words, held him as he cried and wiped snot and drool all over me, cleaned puke off of the bathroom floors (both), the living room carpet, the bed, his clothes, and yes-- even myself. I told him stories, started a movie, ran two much-needed baths for him, carried him outside for a bit of fresh air, set cool cloths on his forehead.... You know, just general mommy stuff-- no big deal-- goes with the territory.
But do you know what I got for my efforts? As I was holding him in the midst of his tears and pain, stroking his hair, LM cried, "I wish I had someone who could actually help me! Waaaaaaaaaa!"
What am I? Chopped liver? And then it hit me (um, here's the part where I will wax all spiritual for a moment): as much as I wanted LM to notice that I was helping him, all he could focus on was his immediate discomfort. I can only imagine I spurn God in the same way when experiencing less-than-pleasant circumstances myself. Wait-- I can do more than imagine, I have actual memories I could call up. 'Nuff said.
Now, we'll see how aware I am of that little lesson if I'm the one barfing tomorrow. Barf seems to erase much of my reasoning abilities.... But it is great for weight loss! (Hey, humor me, I'm trying to conduct a little preemptive optimism here.)
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