My Incredibly Considerate Child

In February, Emmy got sick two weekends in a row.  We think she must have just been coughing so hard that she threw up, but we'll never know for sure.

On Saturdays, she usually lets us sleep in a bit, and when I hear her talking to herself, I go check on her and get her out of the crib.  Both these days, I walked in, got her out of bed, got her diaper changed, and then noticed that something was amiss.

Both Saturdays, everything was piled up on the far side of the crib away from Emmy. 

I looked at Emmy and I asked her, "Emmy, did you throw up?"  She nodded at me.  "Well, sweetie, why didn't you call me?"

To which she, understandably, had no answer.  Her vocabulary is steadily increasing, but I didn't really expect her to answer my question.

But it's the oddest thing.  I know that when I was a kid, if I threw up, I screamed for my mom until she came and cleaned it all up.  (By the way, thanks for that, mom.)  It wasn't even that I needed someone to clean it up, I probably could have pushed everything aside until the morning-- but when I threw up, I wanted sympathy.  Right then.

But not my daughter.  She just moves it out of her way and moves on with her night. (There's no way to tell when she's throwing up.  It might be happening first thing in the morning anyway.  All I know is, it's not there when we check on her before Tom and I go to bed.)  It's just another in the catalog of ways that she is different from me.