Henry came down with a stomach bug last weekend. He had been out of sorts, not eating much, and on Saturday night he refused to sit at the dinner table and was crying when he suddenly threw up.
I went to comfort him but my husband wisely said, "I think there's more coming," and sure enough, there was. He threw up again in bed that night and many times on Sunday -- including twice in my lap.
Henry has never thrown up before Saturday, so I suppose I should be thankful that he and we made it this far, but it's tough to feel gratitude when you're covered in vomit.
He didn't eat any solid foods on Sunday or Monday and very little on Tuesday, but he nursed often. I watched him for signs of dehydration, but I was never really worried. He seemed to know what his body needed.
Henry's back to eating normally and we had the most wonderful day today. I pushed him on his bike up to the park, where he dug in the soggy sand and climbed through tunnels and went down slides and pretended to fly a plane for almost an hour.
At home we made apple muffins and played with Play-Doh and read books and built a new track configuration for his trains.
It was a regular day for us, but it seemed so much sweeter knowing Henry felt normal again -- not to mention the lack of vomit. "No vomit" has moved high on my list of what constitutes a good day.
It's the little things.
