After posting my last blog entry I went upstairs to get ready for bed. As I approached the top of the stairs I noticed a strange smell. Once I reached the top landing, there was no mistaking it. VOMIT. There were only two possible options as to who the spewer might be, but I already knew.
A few hours before, as I put Ava to bed she complained that her stomach hurt. I gave her a little tummy medicine and sent her back to her room. Here's the thing: Ava's tummy always hurts around bedtime. That's her excuse for getting out of bed and dragging out the waking hours as much as possible. If it's not her tummy, it's her head. However, the mystery pain usually subsides when I mention that we can't go to dance/soccer/friend's house the next day if she isn't feeling well. Then, miraculously, the illness goes away. So, tonight, I figured she was up to her usual antics. So, armed with medicine in her belly, four goodnight kisses and five goodnight hugs I told her I loved her and that she had to stay in her room. Being the obedient little girl she is, she did... even after throwing up ALL OVER her bed.
So, fast forward a few hours. I smell the smell, move quickly to her room and see her tiny body slouched over her bed surrounded by and covered in dinner, in reverse.
The sight of my sweet girl, covered in vomit, caused a horrible feeling to come over me. A feeling of complete and utter remorse and failure. A feeling that I am the worst mom in the world. I didn't believe my daughter when she said she didn't feel well and as a result, I was giving her a bath at one in the morning to remove the throw-up crusted in her hair and on her body. I asked her why she didn't tell me she had to throw up and she responded, "Because you told me not to come out of my room unless I had to go potty." Broke my heart.
As I write this, Ava is next to me slowly munching on a banana. She says she doesn't feel well, and I believe her. Tomorrow, I think we'll have to amend our bedtime rules.