The look of panic, fear and confusion replays in my head, over and over and over.

Lucy was lying on her back when it hit. She coughed, and clear fluid shot up and out of her mouth, the way water looks when you squeeze it between your hands in the tub.

Her eyes opened wide, and she struggled to tell me something as I pulled her into a sitting position, the liquid still flowing. It fell on her face, her neck and legs, my shoulder, the bed and pillow.

It was over in seconds. It will be but one of many throw-up incidents in our entangled mother-daughter lives. But those three emotions splayed across her face, radiating from her eyes, still haunt me hours later.

I’ve never seen her be sick before. I heard it once, when she was an infant. The other times she’s thrown up at my Mom and Eric’s Dad’s, the rites of parenthood continuing into the next generation.

I’m proud of myself for keeping it together in those seconds. For talking soothing as she shook, smoothing her hair out of her eyes, and wiping the vomit off her face with my bare hands. Because inside I was stunned and reeling from helplessness.

I’ve emailed and talked with concerned family and friends throughout the day, joking about puke, missing my much-anticipated hair appointment, and oh, the joys of motherhood! It seems like a sign of weakness to admit how…scared I was by how scared she was.

But the longer I am a parent, the more I learn that fear is mingled with everything regarding children. Fear, when Alice is so young, that she’ll fall asleep and not wake up. Fear of a car accident when someone else is driving. Fear they’ll be bullied at school, or snatched away in the middle of the night. The simple fear they won’t be happy, when that is all a parent ever wants for a child.

It’s always there, simmering below, because worry is born into your life along with your children, kicking and screaming, non-negotiable and ever-present.

A blip of illness as a reminder just how little we can protect them.

But a mother’s love and soothing hand — no matter during throw up or a broken heart — must also be non-negotiable and ever-present. And, sometimes, kicking and screaming, too.

Lucy, during all of this, kept saying my name.

“Mummy, have a bath with me.”

“Mama, stay with me.”

“Hold me, Mama.”

Always, my love. Even if it’s all I can do.

(It’s strange to dedicate something about barf to someone, but Mom, these words are for you. I think I reached a new level of appreciation and understanding about motherhood today — and it made me value you even more. Even if it was usually Pa who held my hair back.)

Possibly related posts:

1. Surreal
2. Unspoken
3. Survival
4. Love like no other
5. Proof