Ruthie became dehydrated twice this week as a result of the heat – and despite my constant nagging about drinking water. As she hovered over the toilet, I held back her hair and stroked her back as she heaved.
I’m not sure how I knew she was dehydrated, as opposed to actually having a stomach virus. Short of a hangover or two, it’s not like I’ve been around anyone before who was dehydrated enough to feel nauseous. But sure enough, after she hovered over the toilet for awhile, I finally gave her a tall glass of water to drink and a puke bucket to lay next to her, and sent her off to bed.
The next morning she was fine.
Someday when my kids are out on their own, I picture them dropping in on each other to share a beer and some banter from time to time. And despite how weird this may sound, I kind of imagine their relationship to be a lot like Dexter and his sister, Debra – she was always barging in on him, and giving him a hard time, and taking swigs straight from the juice carton, and bringing up memories of their dad.
Despite the fact he was a serial killer and she didn’t know it, they seemed close and I liked their sibling vibe.
I can imagine Ruthie barging into Thomas’ refrigerator and pilfering a beer, then flopping on the couch. As she strokes her aching head with the cold, sweaty bottle I imagine the memory coming to her.
“Hey Thomas,” she’ll say. “Remember how Mom always used to yell at us to drink more water?”
“Yeah,” he’ll say. “That was her answer for everything.”
“She was crazy.”