When I went to get Carter from his crib today, he wasn't crying. Instead he pointed to sloshes of vomit dripping from his crib rails onto the floor, quietly caught my eye and whispered, Oh no.
I felt horrible that - for whatever reason he'd been sick - he was alone when he threw up. What a scary experience for a small child! Oh, guilt.
I dipped him in the tub, dried him off and tugged him into the most oversized, comfortable t-shirt/sweatpants combo he has. Then I braced myself for a day of general fits of unhappiness and washcloths full of puke.
Instead, he's gently and politely clung to Matt and I all day. He drags the throw blanket from our couch around the house with him, stops, sits and drapes it over his legs. It's as if he knows everyone should be blanketed for the day when they're sick.
I hated seeing him that way - sad, too defeated for squirming or grabbing my hand to take me all over the house. But I'm not gonna lie. I was loving a full day of snuggle time.