I love experience.

Poor little Rog is sick with a capital ICK. He has thrown up in three different carseats, on our carpet, on our couch, in sinks (when we could get him there in time), in his high chair tray (much preferred), and all over me (several times). He's gone through like 9 pairs of pajamas today. (I've gone through a few outfits myself.) He is wimpery and lethargic and heartbreaking.

And all day I've felt calm and grateful. Grateful that Blaine was a good boy all day. Grateful that I have Taylor. Grateful that I have family close. Grateful that my friend called offering pedialyte and dinner. Grateful (oh, so grateful!) for my washing machine. And most of all, grateful that I've been through this before and I know that eventually he will get better. I remember every time Blaine got sick as a baby I was an absolute mess. It was so stressful and I was always convinced he would never get better. This time around it's messy, it's inconvenient, and it's sad to watch, but I know it can't go on forever. And so I hunker down and I revel in my unusually snuggly babe.

And then I clean up more barf.