Wretchedness...

[warning: non-graphic but repeated mention of regurgitation follows]

The Best Toddler Ever is sick.

She had a happy day today, toddling at the speed of light, as usual. Chatting in her grammatically reckless yet strangely intelligible English. Fell asleep right at 9.

And woke up repeatedly circa 11, then finally wouldn't (or couldn't) get back to sleep. Then started vomiting. Unpleasant for anyone, but worse for her, as she's still at the age where she's convinced the world is her friend, and any betrayal like this is met with outrage and profound sadness.

For my part, my thoughts immediately went to botulism, because I'm a third-person hypochondriac as well as first (took A.P. Hypochondria in high school) and that's what I always think whenever anyone gets a stomach bug. Sort of like I always start freaking about my heart whenever I get any kind of chest pain, until I belch, or remember that I'd pulled a muscle lifting something the previous day.

This has happened four times in the last two hours, each time with less result and more sleepiness. I know it's just a stomach bug, she seems more prone to them than is her sister (both have Kryptonian immune systems; last time they did get something like this -- which had nearly incapacitated their mom and myself for days -- they got a little queasy, went to sleep, and were fine six hours later).

Still, I am sad. I worry she'll choke on her own vomit in her sleep, even though she's cuddling right next to me and I sleep like a cat on espresso. I worry she'll turn out to have eaten something she secreted between the cushions a week ago and which has since evolved sapience (no worry there, of course, give it another day and it'll be too busy blogging and watching YouTube to fight her white blood cells).

Sucks to be Daddy when your toddler is sick.