Little lady wasn't feeling well last night - stomach bug is flying through her school - and although she never actually fell victim, we were up for a couple of hours back and forth to the bathroom just waiting...and waiting...and waiting. I was not teaching an 8 yo how to make herself vomit - as much as I thought it would probably help. I finally put her blanket and pillow in the bathroom so she felt certain she'd make it to the toilet and I retreated to bed.
The joys of parenting.
She bounced up this morning with a skip in her step and seemed fine. We had plans to go see Santa to check that off the holiday list - too many things happening on the weekends starting tomorrow - so I sent her to the shower.
After she was all dressed I peered into her bedroom to find her lip syncing to a Hannah Montana song (don't ask me which one, I block them from my mind whenever possible) and she had her hands waving over her head, the invisible microphone in her hand, some fancy footwork going on and a huge smile on her face.
I stepped away so she wouldn't see me and I cried a little. Not sad tears, but happy ones. I remember those innocent moments in my room with just me and my record player and my favorite 45. I wanted to be a singer...I just couldn't sing. She was having a blast just being a kid. I loved that for her...just being a kid.
She's curled up in my bed right now with a fever and a woozy stomach, again. I'm sure she overdid it, and being up at 4 a.m. didn't help. We'll work through these germs and on to the next. We put Santa on hold for now. But for 10 minutes this morning she was a rock star without a stomach ache. Totally awesome.
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