If this post was written about snot, I would be gagging as I type. But, it snot. (ha ha – get it – it’s NOT… okay. Nevermind.) I can handle anything except that nasty substance, so I’m going to tell you some stories about vomit. If you’re a queasy person, you may want to just scroll to the bottom, leave a comment about something more fantastic than snot and vomit and pretend you were never here. However, it’s totally non-descript, so if you decide to stay, I won’t be too in-depth about the barf so that you yourself don’t lose your cookies. Or pasta. Or lunch. Or whatever it is you just ate.
The point is, yucky bodily fluids are just a part of being a parent. I have been lucky in that there was only one explosive throw-up episode, and it’s been about 4 years ago, which means I’ve completely forgotten about it.
Until now.
Last week we went on vacation, and if you
follow my Tweets, you would have read all about my complaining about this very incident I’m about to discuss here. I knew you all have spent many countless nights awake, wondering about the details, and since I aim to please, here they are.
We are riding in the car, leaving our hotel to head out to indulge in random, fun festivities. Logan is busy reading his map, telling us where we need to go. Since this poor kid is exactly like his mother, attitude and grumpiness included, he gets carsick easily. The roads were very winding, uphill, downhill, etc. At first he says he needs to go to the bathroom. Every kid does. They know something really bad is about to happen, and they aren’t sure which end needs attention. I tell him that we’re almost there and to hold it just a bit longer. Then I hear him whimpering. I look at Mike, because I know exactly what he’s feeling, since I get carsick just
thinking about riding in the car. Before I can finish saying, "We should probably pull—"
He yaks.
All over.
And I mean, ALLLLLL over. Because he covered his mouth, and well, it has to come out somewhere.
Needless to say, there is a good to every bad story, and he would need clean clothes. So I just HAD to go shopping. Twist my arm, and I bought him three new outfits. You know,
just in case.
Later that same day, we were taking a late dip in the pool. Owen really loves water and the pool, but he’s used to either the bathtub or the kiddie walk-in pool we frequent. This was a regular ole hotel pool, where the shallowest end was 3 feet deep.
He kept trying to leap out of my arms or push me away from him, because
gosh, Mom, I can do this myself. It was starting to get really annoying when he would throw a fit at the same time, so I made a decision that every loving mother would make in the same situation. I decided to show him exactly what would happen if I really did let him go, as he wanted. You won’t learn unless you try, right?
(He had those arm floaties on, people; don’t be hatin’. Yet.)
So, I said, “Okay, Owen.” And I let go.
His arms stay afloat, his feet come to the surface, and he gets a face full of water, and starts coughing. The whole scenario played out in less than two seconds, but it was enough to start the gasping for air coughing, which subsequently led to the gagging cough aaaaand then the upchucking of his dinner into the pool. Lovely.
Two in one day. I think that might be a record of some sort.
But I have another one that may very well top that previous story.
About two years ago, my mother-in-law took little Brandon to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. It was one of those super-classy establishments, where you eat and then pay at the counter by the front door. While she is paying, Brandon is staring off into space at a very fancy fountain they have in the entry.
And then he projectile vomits.
Into the fountain.
The mother-in-law is totally caught off-guard because he had eaten just fine only minutes prior.
So she does what every good mother (i.e. me) would have done. She drops her money – pays no mind to how much change she should get back – and quickly whisks Brandon out of the restaurant and into the car as fast as she can, as he vomits on the floor the whole way out.
Then waves as they leave.
A girl after my own heart.
So, now, we’re celebrating my mother-in-law’s belated birthday, and she wants to go to this same restaurant. Did I mention it was a buffet? Yeah.
I make a plate for Owen and get him going on his dinner, while I visit the Buffet Gods of Holy Crab Rangoon. I come back and notice this white substance on Owen’s shirt.
What the heck?I assumed it was the tapioca pudding (which he usually loves), because if he doesn’t like something, he’s very proper in just letting it run out of his mouth and down his shirt like a perfectly mannered child. I grab fifteen napkins and wipe it off his shirt while he happily chomps on carrots. But the white substance is not tapioca pudding. His pudding is untouched, on the plate.
I pull his high chair out from the table, and notice that this white substance is alllll down the front of his shirt, down his shorts, his leg, alllll over the high chair and a puddle on the floor. And it smells funny.
It was vomit. And I have no idea how it happened, because he went on eating and playing like no big deal. I would think a sick child would be crying or have a lack of appetite. Not this kid. He’s definitely not wasting away by any means, but it was a real brain buster.
We still don’t get it, but I cleaned him up just the same.
And the puddle on the floor… (Did I mention it was carpet?!) I covered it in napkins and left it.
I’m sure it’s not the first time someone has done that, right? In the same restaurant, right? By related children, right? RIGHT?
Besides, it was sort of a payback for the drink dude that kept refilling my Sprite with water. Hello! Bubbles. You don’t have bubbles in water, you moron!
And JUMP!
Unplug nose.
