This song of mine, in three-quarter time

Well, it finally happened. J threw up last night.

I know - it's not remarkable in any way. After all, she is five. Little kids get sick all the time, right? But it is remarkable, and for two reasons. One: She has never had a stomach bug of any kind. Ever. Colds? She has the market cornered on them. Otherwise, she is heretofore the healthiest girl around. This past year she also had her very first ear infection and bout of strep throat. Amazing.

Two: I have been dreading last night my entire life, so I was convinced that the event would occur much sooner with all my obsessing. As I may have mentioned before, I am positively phobic about vomiting, and would do almost anything to avoid it. Seriously. When JBL and I were just dating, and K would get the stomach flu, I would speed away in my car, shaky and distraught, and leave them alone for days. I've been known to hurriedly exit the bathroom rather than hold a girlfriend's hair after a night of too much imbibement. (On an unrelated note, I got a misspelling warning on that last word, and one of the suggestions was impalement, which was disturbing in its own right). I am getting nervous-tummy even writing about this.

And so here we are. She made it through her whole baby and toddlerhood, plus two years of preschool without stomach issues. She was as shocked as we were. Luckily for all involved, her case was short-lived, and as of 6am this morning she has been vomit-free.

I handled it as well as I would have imagined - in short, not very well. I forced myself to stay in the room as long as possible, but kept finding excuses to go and get something, or do something, even as JBL handled much of the clean-up and laundry. I only donned rubber gloves to help once during the whole affair. When she actually let go in front of me at one point, I even plugged my ears and cringed as I encouraged her with, "There! You're going to feel so much better! You're doing great!" Though I can be happy I didn't run for the hills, I wish I had been warmer about the whole thing. Closer.

I remember a lot of things about my childhood - good and bad. While my relationship with my mom was tumultuous, I can tell you she was very good at taking care of me when I was sick. I remember jello and icy-cold watermelon balls. I remember encouragement to take small sips of soda, and genuine sympathy over shakes and headaches and fever. When I was an adult and had my one taste of the flu, she came over and took my dog for me, and kept him for three days while I slept. When I was recovering, she made me homemade french onion soup (I don't like chicken noodle), calling my favorite restaurant for the recipe.

The memories of these hard times are as warm and soft as the memory around more classic family happy times like Christmas. Do you love Frank Sinatra's Christmas Waltz as much as I do? That dreamy beginning always instantly transports me back in time. I am little. The fragrant tree is tall and thick. The happy ornaments tucked in the boughs almost glow from within. The living room is dark except for the sparkling lights. There are candles on the mantle and a crackling fire in the fireplace. Frank Sinatra, Henri Mancini, Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians, and Perry Como croon to me softly from the stereo in the corner.

The flood of memories is always accompanied by a bone-deep feeling of peace and relaxation, and it was all my mom's doing - with my dad (not unusually I suppose) along for the ride. She loved the joy we experienced along with her the whole season. Watching the Nutcracker on TV. Picking out just the right tree. Cookies. Music. Local holiday light displays. You name it.

Though I hang my hat on similar memory-making, I realize there is more to being a mom. There should be, always, kind words and soft hugs. There should be favorite meals and shared play. There should be encouraging smiles and (God help me) silence and understanding. And there should be comforting touches when you are throwing up. I clearly have a lot to work on.

Still, I was gratified earlier this week when I brought up the Christmas decorations bins from the basement. The girls simply could not contain themselves. Though I had planned on opening them after lunch, K begged to open the immediately. And so she went to work. She arranged everything just-so, based on where we always put the decorations, even dragging chairs around to set snowmen and nutcrackers in high places. Meanwhile, J just pulled items out of the bins, exclaiming each time with new enthusiasm, "MOMMY! Do YOU remember THIS?! Where should we PUT THIS?!" There were contended smiles and shrieks of joy. The Christmas (excuse me, holiday) M&Ms came out. And there was a request for music.

"What shall we play?"

"Frank Sinatra!" came J's immediate reply.

"Yeah, Frank Sinatra," agreed K. And so I searched out A Jolly Christmas on the Squeezebox, and soon we were all singing along. And for a moment I was the mom I long to be.

J just woke up from her long afternoon nap, making up for last night's distress. I gave her a big bowl of strawberry jello, a small stack of Ritz crackers, and a big, warm hug.