Guttural, from her core, one of my daughters got sick last night. As I write this and as you read it, you know. You cringe for her because you know. You’ve done it, you’ve cleaned it up for someone else, you’ve watched it happen.

I am phobic about vomit. No, let me be more specific. I am phobic about the stomach virus.

Fever? Come cuddle.
Cough? Let me grace your forehead with a kiss.
Heaving all night? Do not come within ten miles, give or take, of my breathing space.

I can be cool, calm, collected if my son gets carsick. There is hardly a chance that I’ll be doing the same in 24 hours so, be my guest. Let me comfort you. I’ll even pick it up with my bare hands. OK, no. That’s too far.
But if one the kids does the midnight whisper, “Mom, I threw up,” I am nearly in the fetal position trembling and diagnosing my own abdomen for any signs that I don’t feel good.

It may surprise you to know that in spite of this, I often am the parent who’s up with the ill, holds the bowl, cleans the mess (albeit with rubber gloves), because I am Mom. I run drink errands, wash and rinse, play movies incessantly. I am also the parent who most frequently gets the virus. When I do, it’s like I’ve been through war. I talk about it as if I’ve just gotten back from overseas where I’ve seen horrendous acts of violence and narrowly survived. I return from this dark place a hero.

But if I haven’t had it yet, I enter ritual mode. I walk the house armed in plastic, holding bleach water. Every touchable surface gets a cleansing, every fabric Lysoled. I wash my hands so much they crack. 
I try to control my fate. This is partly due to my genetic predisposition to panic disorder (which I’ve battled my entire life and will blog about another day). And what I’ve learned about the disorder is that its greatest defeater, its best cure, is to walk at with both arms swinging.

So let’s do this thing.