Friday, October 19, 2012

Puke

"Be careful. Let me get you a towel. She throws up. A lot."

Erica handed me the towel and helped me tuck it between me and Baby Hannah. I still marvel that Baby Hannah is here. Last year at this time, four of us were driving back to State College from a CCO staff seminar in Ligonier. Erica grew incredibly sick and threw up alongside a curb outside of a Sheetz in the middle of nowhere PA. Morning sickness was the norm and I hadn't known anyone who could turn pale and green at the drop of a hat like Erica.

And now, here is Baby Hannah already somehow not an infant but a baby, a difference I'm not sure how to articulate: her head tilted back to get a good look at my face and smile as we made screeching noises back and forth to each other.

She kept her spit up to herself while I held her. Then Erica took her back. It came up and went everywhere. Erica was unperturbed. "This happens all the time. At least she sleeps a lot!" Erica commented. The spit up was all over the blanket and some on Erica and some in Hannah's hair.

But Hannah. That little sweet heart was looking at me as she spit up. As her stomach came out of her mouth, she just grinned. No tears. No distress. Just a sweet smile.

Erica kissed her head and cleaned up a little bit. The conversation we were having kept rolling. And I couldn't help thinking how beautiful it was to be so taken care of that you can crap and throw up and be as gloriously dysfunctional as a body can be and be so unbothered by it. To be so oblivious to the mess and the trouble and the smell. It's okay. Someone loves me and will clean the puke out of my hair.

I want to be that messy and that carefree in my own helplessness and that confident in being loved.

I want to clean up puke with that kind of grace.


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