Home Sweet Home. Not.
I’ve been holed up here for three days straight with a sick kid. I’m trying to see the bright side, but I’ve only come up with one so far. She is not vomiting.
I hate vomit. I hate fake vomit too. I hate kid vomit the most. A big reason I hate kid vomit is because kids never have a clue they are about to ralph all over you. There is no early warning system, no tell-tale signs, just a fleeting bug-eyed look of astonishment before your shoes are covered in muck. What I really need is a Hazmat suit.
The problem with kids is when they are sick, they want to attach to you like leeches. The child who can barely stop for a quick hug is now glued to your side with a 103 degree fever. So I have learned to think in terms of collateral damage.
I no longer allow a sick kid to snuggle in my bed. I might as well stick my finger down the patient’s throat myself, the vomiting is so predictable. Admittedly, I have made some stupid maneuvers. My only defense is most of these decisions were made at three in the morning.
For example, one of my children woke me up with her coughing. As soon as I got within optimal target range, she apologetically opened fire. Of course, there is a law–Jody’s Law–that kid vomit must cover a minimum of five hard-to-clean surfaces simultaneously. It’s physics. Go ask a science teacher to explain it.
So it was three in the morning. The poor child was now bedless, unhappy, and cold. Without thinking, I told her to go jump into my bed while I changed her sheets, blankets, comforter, pillow, and assorted stuffed animals unlucky enough to be within projectile range. But before I had a chance to add bleach to the washer, I heard little hiccup-y sounds coming from my room.
It was only a few steps, but it felt like one of those slow-motion war movies. I was racing and yelling, “Where’s the bucket?” Too late. Vomit, like shrapnel and carnage, was flying everywhere. The horror was unspeakable. My 650-thread count sheets, my down comforter, my kid, all covered in puke. Ugh.
I should have known better. After all, this followed the incident in the minivan where the kid sitting behind me spewed all over the roof liner, the front bucket seat, and the back of my head. We were 500 miles from home. I think both of us–the puker and the pukee–were reduced to tears.
So I am sitting here trying to look on the bright side. I have found that a non-cookie-tossing sick kid who can only lie on the couch and watch cartoons is still able to sort all the loose pictures I’ve been meaning to put into albums. She is all the way through 1998. I’m so excited to be able to close out last century’s photos.
So I’ve changed my mind. Without vomit, this place is Home, Sweet, Home after all.
Mom Living Out Loud