When Less Is More

There are things you don'’t really appreciate, or even notice in life until they're gone -– everyone knows that (if they don't, though, Joni Mitchell will tell them). Like when you get sick, you suddenly appreciate your normal state of lack of sickness, namely, health. When you have an ear infection, you look at every moment in your life that was untainted by excruciating, mind-numbing ear pain, and think, I was spoiled, man. And when you have the stomach flu, you watch people eating cheesy, greasy pizza and fresh, lightly-toasted bagels with cream cheese and lox and think, there was a time when I ate like that, too. And I DIDN'’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I HAD. It's all put into perspective.

And when you watch your almost-two-years old bundle of joy suffer the stomach flu, and comprehend his inability to even verbalize his agony to his primary caretakers, you suddenly value basics like knowing how to talk.

Today, I'm in that state -– that condition of hyper-awareness of every little, tiny, normally-taken-for-granted gift for which I should be glad. Because over the weekend, I had the stomach flu. And so did Ariel. And today, I finally feel like a human being again, and he seems to, too.

This weekend, I was fortunate to have three out of my four siblings in town, plus my sisters-in-law, one of whom I rarely get to see. When you grow up with only brothers, you appreciate sisters-in-law- they're like hard-earned rewards for handling your only-girl position with such aplomb for so many years. So I was really happy we were all going to be together, as grown-ups (shut up) this time, even though we were missing the youngest sib (we did miss you, Sim).

We were doing Saturday lunch at my house, a crowd of fourteen, once you counted Y's family and my sister-in-law's cousin, and though I got my cooking done early on Friday, I was NOT feeling well. Which I was NOT happy about. I had woken up nauseated and dizzy, and despite sticking to clear liquids throughout the day, things weren't looking up.

To make matters worse, Ariel, who'’d been acting perfectly normal, threw up in his bed just before his nap, leaving me suspicious that we were dealing with the same virus, and not food poisoning from the incredibly good sushi I'd taken out on Thursday night.

But he seemed okay for the rest of the day, I started to feel better, so my visiting brother and I concluded that maybe he'’d just been playing a little too hard with the kids, maybe Ariel was just a bit dehydrated, and we decided to stick with the plan to go to my local brother's house for dinner.

By the end of the meal, Ariel was acting weird, like he wanted me to put him to sleep, but couldn't get comfortable anywhere. He just kept putting his head down on stuff, and then picking it up, sitting down in his stroller, and then making me take him out, lying down in my arms, and then running off. Then, he puked again. All over my brother and sister-in-law's hardwood floor (thank G-d for hardwood). I carried him to the bathroom where he finished the job over the toilet.

This little, snugly, pajama-clad body standing and heaving over the toilet, me holding his puffy hair back, like a miniature adult bearing the consequences of a night on the town -– I could hardly stand it. When he was through, he collapsed in my arms, buried his face in my neck, and, through teary eyes - grinned. Up at me. And said, "Ariel all better."

He couldn'’t verbalize that he'’d been feeling crappy, but he knew the words for the relief he felt just then. We all know the words for that kind of relief.

I should have seen the signs, though. Because it wasn't the first time that kind of thing had happened.

About a year ago, we ate Friday night dinner at some friends'’ house. Towards the end of the meal, Elan started begging me to leave: "Can we go home now? Can we just go home? I really want to leave..."” and so on. I'’d been a little embarrassed and quieted him down, though he continued to persist. I pulled him onto my lap, and just before dessert made its way to the table, he threw up all over me. And our friends' floor (hardwood, people! We are blessed). And my white skirt, which made its way to the trash shortly after.

The present company sat, shocked, for a moment before springing to action. But before anyone could move, Elan, utterly spent, turned and looked up at me with glassy eyes and asked in a brown-sugar voice, "Now can we please go home?"

So apparently, I didn'’t learn enough from that experience to guess that Ariel's strange behavior indicated he'd be sick the other night. But I did decide to move forward from there, so when Ariel announced that he was feeling better, I looked him in the eye and calmly explained, "“You threw up, Ariel, but Mommy'’s here and you're going to be okay. Do you need to throw up anymore?"” I wanted to give him words.

He shook his head, saying, "“No, no,"” with his eyes half-closed, like Do you think you might give me a moment'’s peace now that I heaved everything short of my small intestine into my uncle'’s duck-rug-padded toilet? You know, before grilling me some more? And I backed off.

He was okay after that. I, on the other hand, was feverish most of that night, and my dry heaves continued through Sunday morning. Of course, I found plenty of metaphors and synonyms to describe the way I was feeling ("You know when you sort of just pray for death rather than deal with the room spinning at a violent speed and your stomach twisting itself in knots in a fashion normally associated with knife wounds and swallowed explosives? That's kind of where I'm at right now..."), with which, to be honest, Y seemed to grow a little bored. But I'm just guessing from the constant rolling of his eyes and continually decreasing responsiveness to my complaints.

Which makes me wonder: as adults, if we really want sympathy for being sick, should we skip the dramatic preludes, and head right to the public climax of the play? If impact is what we're after - forego the sprint to the bathroom altogether, and hope for a hardwood floor?

Pull a Now Can We Go Home?

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PS - Ariel just used the word "actually" in proper context - be still my heart.

PPS - Why did none of you mention that frogs croak at night? And that it sounds nothing like "ribbit?"