Last night, after the radio broadcast, we picked Malcolm up from the Tuckers. He hasn't been feeling 100% for a little while now, and he pomptly passed out in the car on the way home. After an 8 mile drive, we pulled into the driveway, when suddenly, he woke up, coughed, and hurled. I stopped the car, got him out of his carseat, and just held him close to me. He wasn't done puking. After a few more heaves, he and I were both covered in a white mess, spotted with chunks of beef stroganoff. Now, you need to understand that, normally, puke makes me puke. It's disgusting. I can't even clean up dog poop without making that "throwing up noise" we're all familiar with. The smell alone is enough o drive me away. However, for some reason, there was magic here.
Disgusting, I know. Stay with me here.
With my free, bare hand, and without hesitation, I carefully wiped the vomit from my son's face. I talked to him softly, chuckled at the ridiculousness of the situation. I gently walked inside, straight to the bathroom. We sat on the toilet, covered in the icky. I talked to him softly as I slowly turned on the bath. Then i threw all of his clothes and the two shirts of mine that were wrecked into the sink and gave my son a bath.
I guess the unlikely moral of this story is this: last night, maybe I didn't "discover" what unconditional love really is, but it definitely reinforced my idea of the things I unknowlingly am capable of overcomming in regards to the little guy in my life.