Tuck woke me up around 3:30 AM.
"Mommy, I think I'm going to throw up. Will you watch me?"
Watch isn't the verb I would have chosen. Help? Yes. Pray for? Certainly. Encourage? You betcha. Hug? Repeatedly.
But watch? Especially if you merely suspect it's coming, and we need to wait for the premiere? And it's the middle of the night?
A better mother might have sat beside him and stroked his brow until the sun came up. This mom hooked him up with a glass of water and a bowl to catch his contents, gave him a strong dose of sympathy, and asked him to keep me posted.
An hour later, he came to my bedside with the bowl in his hands. Now filled. (I need not go into further detail.)
He said, "Mommy, look what I have. I throwed up."
I sat up groggily and quickly took the bowl he thrust my way.
"I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, Mommy. I just really had to throw up, and I thought, 'Mommy will be so happy if I throw up in the bowl.' And so aren't you so happy?"
Yes, sweet boy. In a very odd, maternal way, I am so very happy you captured this mess in one self-contained place. If vomit must come our way, you handled it well. Way to be thoughtful, Mr. Top Bunk.
I also told him, since he is now six, that he need not wait for me if he feels like he needs to throw up. He can handle it on his own, especially if he has clues before it happens.
It's a big boy thing, kiddo.