Mom and Vomit: Living the Dream

Mom and vomit, living the dream aren’t we ladies? This isn’t the “hey the tequila was fun vomit– This the “small biologic specimen related to me is so sick they vomited (in my hair) and someone has to clean that up AND comfort an upset child” vomit.

Words I will say a lot: puke, vomit, poo. Not because I’m just a mom and my life has lost all meaning; but because I am their mom and seeing them vomit makes me ache in that special place.

The place of, “oh hell, here we go again” and “argh— please don’t get any of that on me!” and “dear lord, you could at least try to hit that giant trash can next to your head!”

First off, and I mean this in just the nicest way. When I see kids dropping like flies from various viral complaints around the holidays, Ms. Grinchy The Suspicious assumes that some asshat mom chose to bring her known-sick kid out in public, because Darling Precious would be oh-so-disappointed to miss mall Santa and we mustn’t disappoint Precious!

The more benevolent side hopes that is was just clueless mom, like me. See, E had this puke 3 times, cry a lot, virus with no fever a few days ago. After 24 hours symptom-free, to include wall-climbing and couch-bouncing, I happily sent them both to Gram’s house to bake cookies this morning.

Thus, I find some benevolence in my soul that perhaps it wasn’t asshat mom, but didn’t-know mom. I mean, the Z was fine, all day, until 14.6 seconds after putting the iPad away I heard him puking in the bathroom. Barring spit-up, I don’t think he’s puked three times in his life before tonight, and here we are on number 4.

And, doubly-poor kid, Z’s a through-the-nose puker. Which is always gross, but coupled with him being my sensitive to all bad smell’s kid? Lucky for him I watch all that crime drama… I smeared vick’s vapor rub under his nose a la’ crime scene investigators.

And in case you were thinking, “but wait– I was also promised poo!” don’t despair. I spent most of the afternoon/early evening cheering/massaging/threatening a constipated E. To the tune of singing songs about the Poo Choo Train needing to leave the station. All while weighing the appropriateness of introducing him to Mr. Hanky. And giving my first ever liquid suppository.

This. This is the glamorous life I was seeking when I was a childless party girl. Though, to be fair, it’s not as if that life was vomit-free, either. Oh, tequila shots with my bosses. Good times, blurry memories.

That said, a more-eeyore person would be all holiday bummed. Not me, not yet. One, there’s no fever/body aches, which means no flu. Two, I can apply Occam’s razor to E that his issue is from dehydration and lack of exercise — and not the potentially deadly bowel obstruction link that I had just clicked on webmd, when Z let loose on the top bunk. Three, both my kids having rocking immune systems, and they both dig my anti-nausea (but not the sinus sooth) hippie tea. Four, my husband doesn’t have it yet. Because, really, a puking husband is worse than 2 puking Small People.

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