Hope on the Bathroom Floor

It is a brisk October morning, and I am in my happy place—snuggling with my five-year-old son before the sun rises. I push aside the thought that Rowan will be with his father, not me, this evening. These are the bittersweet moments of being a divorced mother. I always miss him when he is not with me, but mothering is exhausting, and sometimes I guiltily relish the nights I’m not on mom duty. Still, in this precious moment, Rowan nestles into the nook of my arm. Time seems to freeze. It is just my miracle child and me, until he suddenly exclaims, "My tummy hurts!"

The hurting tummy is the rockstar of ailments in our household. This time, however, seems different. There is a hint of panic in Rowan’s voice, but I try to stay calm and channel my inner nurse—one of the many unpaid jobs of a mom. I pull out the thermometer gun and patiently click the trigger three times before it reads a normal temperature. Ruling out a fever, I analyze Rowan’s poop since I am also an amateur gastroenterologist. “That’s a healthy poop,” I sigh in relief. 

These developments attesting to his good health do not resonate with Rowan. “I think I just need to rest,” he says, as he lies down on the white shag bathroom rug, clutching his stomach. I lie down on the rug with him. As we gaze into each other’s hazel eyes, Rowan lifts his head and pulls one of my stray brown hairs from his mouth. I notice how hairy the rug is and the dirtiness of the floor. Rowan keeps asserting his tummy hurts, insisting he does not want to go to school, and pleads for his dad to pick him up from mommy’s house. 

It is just me and Rowan lying on the bathroom floor. His father is not physically here to help. He is not even in the same city. Attempting to reassure Rowan, I call his father, thinking that since he has a baby, he is bound to be up at 6:00 am, right? The phone continues to ring with no answer. I suddenly feel the weight of single parenthood bearing down on me. I take a deep breath, silently letting go of my need to control the situation. I realize that Rowan's tummy aches are really cries for validation—his way of expressing the emotional pain and uncertainty that shapes his world. 

He curls into a ball, rocking back and forth. I hold him close, whispering, "It's okay, baby, it’s okay." As I cradle him in the safety of my arms, I reflect on another time in my life when I felt just as helpless. I spent over a decade in chronic pain, made worse by emotional turmoil. Through my healing journey, though, I discover that shutting down vulnerable feelings—numbing them—only deepens hopelessness. Kindness, however, is the match that ignites hope in the darkness. The best way for me to love and protect my son is to teach him to show kindness to himself, to be patient, and to forgive himself. 

My first step is to encourage him. In a soothing tone, I say, "Baby, let's get off the floor and put your clothes on, okay? You'll feel better once you're in clean, cozy clothes." "Okay, mommy," Rowan replies, taking a deep breath. After he reluctantly dresses, Rowan reinforces his resistance to going to school. "That’s okay, buddy," I calmly respond. “How about we see the school nurse, just to make sure nothing is seriously wrong with your tummy? That would make mommy feel much better." Rowan hesitates but agrees, "Okay, mommy, I can do that."

We arrive at school at 7:10 am—20 minutes before school officially opens. I ring the buzzer, Ms. Becky, a front office administrator, opens the door and asks with a puzzled look on her face, “can we help you?” “We have a serious case of tummy aches” I politely announce. “May we please see the nurse,” I ask in a pleading tone. Ms. Becky kindly ushers us to the Nurse’s office. Nurse Eillen assures Rowan she is an expert in upset tummies, and the best treatment is a hug, which he can have anytime. 

Unconvinced, Rowan recoils from nurse Eilleen, and hides behind me. I ask if we can talk to his long-term substitute teacher, Ms. Biskey. Luck would have it that my son is a Casanova in the making. A week ago, he convinced me to help make Ms. Biskey a rainbow, which we create through a sand art kit. Adding to his charm, he asks to hold her hand while simultaneously melting her heart. Nurse Eileen is unable to reach Ms. Biskey, so Ms. Becky escorts us to the front office to wait until school officially starts. In a matter of seconds, to my delight, Ms. Biskey magically appears. With a knowing smile she extends her hand to Rowan, which he gladly takes as she guides him to his classroom.

The day passes without any word from the school about Rowan’s upset tummy, and I assume no news is good news. I learn Rowan has a wonderful day—his tummy ache mysteriously disappears. I smile, realizing how his pain fades once he feels acknowledged and safe with his teacher and friends. It mirrors my own journey with chronic pain. By acknowledging its presence, while refusing to let it control me, I continue living and enjoying my life, which leads to my healing. In the same way, I feel the weight lift off my shoulders as I accept that I cannot shield my son from all pain and suffering. What I can do is hope he builds an unshakable sense of self-worth—one that helps him navigate and persevere through life’s challenges while staying whole.