Isobel woke up this morning at 5:30am.

I brought her to my bed to lie down with me, something I’ve been willing to do for the last week a couple of times since she typically will fall back asleep for an hour and then ask to go back in her own crib.

Today was not a day for that.

She’s just finishing her 17th cold in 18 months. Which means she’s been extraordinarily whiney and tired. She’s even napped a couple of times - during the day.

Most of her colds have been followed up by an ear infection, which with antibiotics leads to a bleeding, raw diaper rash. That gets infected, too and then I’ve got a toddler with a yeast infection.

Think of how your last yeast infection made you feel and add in being two and having a diaper in the way of semi-discreet scratching, leg crossing or chair humping - you know, whatever quells the itch for a few moments. It ain’t pretty on Isobel.

So this morning, she wanted water, gulped it. Fell asleep for all of about 10 minutes, cuddled up with me drifting off beside her - we reverse spoon, each with one arm around the other. It’s kind of cute.

We both woke up when she threw up all over both of us. Didn’t even sit up to do it, choking on the water that refused to stay down. Good thing I just washed the sheets, pillows and duvet, I thought.

Yes, that was sarcastic.

This happened five more times over the next three hours. Then she seemed to be feeling a little better so after asking her permission, I popped in a video and turned her crib for easy viewing. She went in it and I got to go downstairs with the baby monitor for a half smoke.

Not a peep uttered, but when I came back into the apartment, the stench hit me.

Now, both ends had been involved in what can only be described as a violent refusal to maintain hydration.

She was pale, shaking and the smelliest she’s ever been in her life. One diaper change and three more vomitisodes later, she’s cuddled on my lap at the computer, asking for toast. So I made it and she refused it.

Oh, flu, how I hate when you come to roost in Isobel. This is the second time that you’ve brought down your reign and her guts just cannot handle it. And my sense of compassion gets a little knocked out by the overwhelming, ‘oh shit, this is so gross,’ that comes with being around sickies.

She started passing out on my lap, full-on bent in half. And drank some more water, not listening to me when I said to slow down, to not gulp, to take little sips. And then came vomit baths numbers 10, 11 and 12. And liquid diaper number two.

By now, 10:30am, she’s sleeping in her crib, resting for what I’m sure will be more abdominal aerobics. This never happens - even when fevered to 103 degrees - her sleeping it off or even just lying down quietly.

So what’s the point of this story, besides to graphically scar you and incite, “Oh, I’m sorry, I hope she feels better soon”s?

To let you know not to come visit our place, cuz damn, it sure smells like shit and puke in here.

I’m never going to be the girl who hears someone say she’s beautiful and simply says thank you. I will argue it to death, until you never want to say it again.

I’m never going to feel like a writer; like much more than a crappy diarist in this blogosphere. Even though I do intend to actually write, to freelance and to even put out a book or few, I still don’t consider myself much more than barely good enough, slash a professional bullshitter.

I’m not going to be able to keep my mouth closed when someone includes me in the group they’ve called Vancouver blogging royalty (mommy-styles, that is). I’ll likely always consider myself a fly on the wall that some of you allow to land in their lives for a bit at a time.

I’m always going to put it all out there, at the behest of friends, loved ones and family - knowing people may be reading it who are just looking for proof of my misalignments.

I’m always, in some possible way, going to protect the privacy of those I’ve mentioned in posts, by changing subtle nuances in relation to time, effort, identity and imagery. This means everything is true, but it’s also not. Get it?

I don’t write to look for acceptance - maybe on some level it’s to encourage it towards someone else who might be just as off-the-wall as I am, but it’s not so that you accept me. It’s because I’ve got words and thoughts and streams floating through my brain and blogging has been thus far in my life the best medium for my mania.

I’m in awe.

When I wrote the post the other night, I didn’t expect many comments. I expected people to see it in their readers and mark as read, or load up the page and see the 87 paragraphs and maybe skim. I didn’t expect whatsoever the impact that it might have had.

The emails I’ve gotten. Your comments. Your wishes and hugs and hopes and own stories. I appreciate it all like almost nothing I’ve ever been thankful for. You guys have left me relatively speechless - which is pretty effing hard to do. (You knew I was jonseing to curse, didn’t you?)

So, while I still am all of the things above, and feel that my ‘writing’ is nothing much more than adolescent angst thrown up 15 years later on the Internet, I have a sense that everyone who said something important and moving to me does not. I have a sense of being myself and okay with it, and with that same person being okay with you all, too.

Most of all. For a fraction of a moment, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Instead of the life-long weariness of remaining intentionally aloof, so as not to get pushed away.

You all just might be making some little chips in the wall I’ve built so firmly around me.