It always begins in the middle of the night with the sound of a child crying. At least that's the way it is in our home when a stomach bug invades our hallowed walls. This is followed by the afflicted child walking aimlessly along carpeted areas vomiting periodically until they reach a non-carpeted area of our home, at which point they cease throwing up.
The whole scenario is more than a little discouraging.
This pattern is fresh in my mind, because my son Vince experienced it this last week, as did my wife and I. As a dad, helping to clean up the mess after the fact, I had a lot of sympathy for my son, but I also wondered why he hadn't headed for a bathroom at some point during his vomitory journey.
I suppose it is moments like these that make me appreciate my mother more. I know that there were plenty of times when she was up caring for my siblings and me in the night, knowing at the same that she would have a full day's work in the her office the next day.
I won't ever enjoy when stomach viruses come to our homes, but I am glad that I am there to help in those "not so great moments." Some day, a long time from now, my children will be cleaning up vomit in a hallway of their own and think about what these little deeds of service really mean.
They mean love.
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