The Exorcist Meets Munchausen

Claire crawled into my lap, curled herself into my chest and fell asleep. I wriggled my body into a prone position on the couch, pulled a blanket over us, and we took a nap together.

She hasn't rested on my chest like that in a long time. I miss it. She's growing up.

Lately, when she comes up onto my lap, she has a demand. "Read book!" or "Row, row your boat!", she implores, like a little tyrant. I try to kiss her, and she'll make her body rigid and arch against me. Then she yells "DOWN!", and is off me and onto the next toddler task on her agenda.

Yes, our nap together was delicious. Is there something wrong with me?

It's just that Claire was recovering from a bout of late night vomiting. The kind that reminds a parent of The Exorcist. Her impulse to climb in my lap was because she wasn't feeling well. I'm guilty of benefiting from my daughter's misfortune.

I fear I'm relishing in her convalescence too much. I like the extra cuddles and closeness. I like being needed by Claire. I like that she's moving at a slower pace. Hell, I like getting a bit of sleep after the night's hysterics.

I know moms are designed to nurture, but it's a little creepy to feel good when my daughter feels so bad. I'm surely a long way from Munchausen syndrome by proxy, but it did cross my mind...


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