Vomit trails from L's bedroom rug to the bathroom, down the hall. He tries to catch it in his hands, so his hands are full of it. Then, he grabs the potty with those hands, yet still can't understand my insistent instructions, and continues to vomit on the floor. (I'm nursing the baby, by the way.) He looks down and seeing his hands, begins to shake them off. He's stomping his feet in fear and frustration, walking in throw up and escorting it around the bathroom. He notices his clothes are messy and begins to cry for me to "Clean me up, Mommy!" Even in my horror over the mess, my heart melts at his innocent distress.
Nap time is long and quiet. When he wakes up, he calls for me from the top of the stairs, as usual. After I give him permission to descend, I hear him quickly stomping down the stairs. "Where are you, Mom?" he calls. As soon as he sees me, he exclaims, "I'm not sick anymore! I feel GREAT!" Apparently, he is correct, for most of the afternoon goes on as usual. He even eats dinner with us, though he also asks to be excused early, stating simply, "I'm tired. I want to go lay down."
I love two year olds.