Big Little Girl
Tate’s not been hungry all day.
I know that she should eat to hunger and drink to thirst. I know this NOT by example as my mother ate anytime she was uncomfortable with anything. So, pretty much all of the time.
I know this from my Aryuvedic study. This is the healthiest way to ‘feed ourselves’. I work on slowing down enough to notice this but still somehow equate care with food. The Jewish mother in me, I suppose. (On top of the only example I had growing up). Ugh.
“You’ve got to eat, honey. Something. Just a few bites, here …” I slide the plate closer to her. Demanding she put food in her mouth without actually saying it.
Finally, having told me many times that day, starting when she only poked at her breakfast, she has had enough. “Mama! Please - STOP telling me to eat. I don’t have any hunger and I’m listening to my body. It says NO. It has said no all day, including to this dinner!”
Put in my place, hearing my own words, used so intelligently, back at me, “Right.” Tail between my legs, I try and squelch my desperation, “Great job listening to your body, babe.”
One hour later, Tate is projectile vomiting onto her friend, the dog, the outside furniture.
I put her into the shower to clean her off. Her face looks sorry, embarrassed, pale. Reassuring her it’s all okay, she goes on crying and apologizing.
The water warms her but she’s still covered in goosebumps. “Mommy, mommmmmmy, what’s wrong with me?”
She heaves again, in the shower, stopping up the drain. Though I’d set a trash can just outside the tub, she couldn’t get to it in time.
I’ve only seen her this sick a few times before. Tummy bugs aren’t our family’s thing. It’s normally deep coughs and fevers but not throwing up.
While I clear the drain, she thanks me so sincerely, in her youth still such a sage, acknowledging how hard it must be. “Mommy, that must be so gross for you. I don’t think I could do that for my kids. Thank you, Mommy. Oh, it’s soooo yucky…”
“Ohhh baby, it’s all okay. I got you. You know, when you’re a mom, it’s like you’re given some sort of superpower and you can do anything for your babies.”
There she lie, curled up in a ball, like a baby, but almost as tall as me, all legs in her itty bitty bikini, filling the entire bathtub. The shower water runs over her side.
She can’t stand up anymore. She can’t even sit up. She’s lying in her puke with the water pooling around her. I’m so sad for her. She’s delirious.
It’s now been close to an hour that she’s been in there. She can’t speak, only nod or answer with a slow finger wave. I’m trying to help her wash but she can barely move enough to let me.
Tate’s so tall, so independent, so capable and mature for her age, and yet here, now, completely dependent on her mommy.
I flash to the few other times she’s been in this state. When she was really little, with a bowl by her bedside, I’d sleep next to her in her bed so each time I’d be right there to hold her hair back.
Once, up at our cabin in the woods (so far from familiar help making it even scarier for me), she threw up so many times she was unable to lift her skull anymore, yet still had enough bile in her to heave out. I had to use both my hands to lift her face so the throw-up didn’t come out of her nose. She lived on pedialite and nibbles of saltines for days, all bones and hope, endless TV and naps.
There’s something that happens when Tate’s sick that hurts my throat, my arms, my heart - seeing her strong, fiesty body so disempowered. And yet, at the very same time, it’s somehow a visceral reminder of my purpose, role - my importance.
I slow down as much as she’s required to and in the quiet of those sick, slow hours, days, we reconnect. By my just being the only thing she wants, needs.
Here she is, tonight - so BIG. She’s not a little girl anymore. And yet, I have to get her bathing suit off, help her almost ninety pounds out of the tub and get her to a bed somehow, between rounds of throwing up.
She doesn’t want me to leave her side for a moment, or to not be touching her for a second.
I think of how we bickered so the night before and how she’s always wanting space. And how now, when push comes to shove, here, we’re back together, as close as ever and I can’t get a break.
It goes on for twelve straight hours. No joke.
I’m catching moments of sleep but that’s it as each time, she calls for me and I’m right there to reassure her, clean her up and calm her back down. I’ve the nurses at Children’s Hospital upgraded to speed dial as they want updates.
We soon find a rhythm to it all.
Like we always do.
Cool cloth. Sips of water. Heating pad for the sharp pain in her belly, now lining-less. I steadily tickle her stocking feet until she’s back asleep.
Tate's literally passing out between rounds. I’m working in my sleep, to be there, pay attention.
It reminds me not only of the other times she’s been sick, when she was littler, but not being able to hold her in my lap because of how big she is, of other times I’ve played a role like this for other women in my life. For a dear, drunk girlfriend in New York City, on a girl’s trip. For so many different mamas in labor, as their Birth Doula.
And here’s this young woman, my very own baby, needing me - again. Always.
This night of no sleep, of caretaking, throws me. I can’t shake it for weeks. The intimacy of it. The emotionality of it. The closeness and fragility.
Life can get going so fast, so swirly. It can even get rigid, rote, and we forget.
We’re all little girls. Who need our mommies.
