(Note: The situation below prevented me from getting back to Katina, who clearly has an artist's eye for finding beauty in every situation. I can't believe I missed that photo opportunity, Katina. I'm learning that I need to be more on the ball with the camera. Yes, Cheryl, I missed yet ANOTHERphoto op! Anyway, here's a shout out to Katina and her photographer's eye. And here's another shout out to the rest of us who are clearly suffering from irritable bowel syndrome, the rare Asiatic "fluffy" strain.)
Picture it: My home. 7 pm last night. The frantic rhythm of the day is mellowing to a slow, steady beat as the family prepares for night-night time. A lithe, nubile young mother with alabaster skin (radiating the ethereal luminescence of well-applied Bare Minerals) and long, flowing auburn tresses sits down to her laptop to send off a few quick emails. She may or may not have been wearing the new baby pink Michael Kors kitten-heeled spring sling-backs with a cashmere short robe and cami pajamas from Neiman Marcus, also in baby pink. (Look, it’s MY story, and I’ll tell it my way.) She also magically lost her extra post-partum pounds overnight. (So THERE.) And grew an inch taller. (It could happen.)
That gorgeous young mother was me.
She presses “send” on an email to Karla with a K (aka Saint Karla) working out the details of a book exchange and assuring Karla that her family was now “germ-free.” The words “no one is actively exploding or oozing anything” may have been mentioned. TEN MINUTES LATER, I KID YOU NOT, the three year old climbs out of bed and says, “Mommy, my tummy hur—“ And that is as far as he got before the exploding and oozing began. Rotavirus. Bad.
For those of you unfamiliar with rotavirus, it is a particularly insidious ailment that rivals the plague, but without all those pesky swollen, discolored lymph nodes to deal with. It is the stomach flu on ‘roids. And my son has it. I spent the night sleeping on the bathroom floor with him. The bathroom has been scrubbed down with bleach numerous times. I smell like a pool. I’ve been doing laundry non-stop since 2 am, piling in load after load of sheets, blankets, towels, and pajamas and washing them on the SCALDINGHOTDISEASEKILLING CYCLE. I can’t even describe to you the violent bursts of fluid emitted by my son—not because I am incapable of doing so, or that mere words cannot paint an adequate picture, but because I am still so scarred by what I saw, cleaned up, and wiped down that I have blocked it from my consciousness. Suffice it to say that this experience was not unlike a fireworks display: it was loud, performed on a grand scale, involved multiple bright colors splashed across a great distance, and inspired a sort of awe while still making me want to cover my ears a little bit.
The poor kid has been lying in bed since about 8 am. Of his own accord. A three year old. He only moves to weakly ask me to carry him to the toilet and back to the bed.
And now, folks, I must shake out my baby pink cashmere Super Mom cape and return once again to the bedroom to minister to my child’s needs. But, you know--in a small way-- it’s kind of nice to be the Super Mom who saves the day. Now, where did I put those Super Mom Michael Kors sling backs….
*To be read ala Sophia Petrillo of The Golden Girls, which happens to be one of the best television series EVER.
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10 comments:
Being single and childless is a definite lifestyle choice for a reactionary barfer, as I believe myself to be.
Please tell Josh that Auntie Kuj wishes him a sturdy immune system and kiss his forehead for me. Yours too, Stupor Mom. :D
First, GROSS!
Second, I am thanking the baby Jesus that we have not had the stomach ailments in this house yet. Of course typing that has cursed me.
Third, I also think the "Golden Girls" is actually quite funny. Not that I would ever admit that on my own blog. I used to watch it all the time!
omg - the guilt - guilt by juxtaposition.
Karla with a K ... my son hurled every drop of fluid from his body in an 8 hour period.
How can I make it up to you?!!!!
I hope you are all resting peacefully as I type.
Ah, vomit. Projectile emesis. The good old days of toddlers and trajectory. I consider myself an okay mom, a good friend, a wonderful wife (my husband is not a reader, so he can't dispute this)...BUT, and this is a very big but...I can't tolerate vomit. I can't tolerate the noise one makes prior to vomiting. I refuse to be around it. When anyone I know, including my own children, vomits, I leave the room. I once answered the intercom of a man in total traction (he had broken every major bone in his body) when I volunteered as a teen at the local hospital, and when he started to vomit, I turned the intercom off and walked away (well, it's not like I was getting paid or anything). Another time, while riding with my entire family (husband and three sick girls) after a doctor's appointment, I suddenly got violently ill in the car and upchucked over me, the car, and anything within a five mile radius. When we got home, I got out of the car, stripped in the garage, and walked into the house. When my husband asked me what to do about the car, I told him to burn it.
Give me your bleeding open wounds. I can and will remove thorns, stitch up gaping holes until help arrives (well, butterfly bandage them), bring down a temp of 106. I would be willing to try an emergency trach. Dialysis? No problem.
But, leave your vomit at the door. YOUR door.
"Now, if I could only get my mom to name HER phobia. Gastro-intestinal blockage phobia, perhaps? Then, I could force her to sit down with a gastro-intestinal doctor and get her worries out in the open. I bet she’ll feel a lot better when she realizes my son will not explode on impact if he hasn’t pooped in the past 24 hours."
See what you did? He go boom! Your mother was RIGHT!
Just thought I'd help. :)
omg... I'm in tears from laughing at all of you! I remember when my first son got sick when he was a baby somewhere around the 9 month old mark. I'd be holding him and all of the sudden we would both be drenched in his throw up. I went through about 10 tshirts that weekend. Which would you rather clean- vomit or poop? For me- I'd rather clean vomit. Anytime there's been a poop accident- I just throw those underwear away!
Kuj--Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it right there. I love my mother VERY MUCH, but we don't want to go around saying she's "right." Information like that will go right to her head, and before you know it she'll try putting me back in those Laura Ashley fru-fru dresses she made me wear when I was a kid, stenciling tea roses on my bedroom walls, and braiding my hair so I can rock it out ala' Pippy Longstocking.
In the future, let's not say she's right; let's just say she's less wrong than usual. (P.S. Love you, Mom! Please don't stop babysitting for me!!)
Amy--Sadly, you probably ARE cursed. I typed the very words you wrote only ten minutes before the bodily fluid show started. My prayers are with you! (By the way, are you pregnant again? I thought your blog mentioned a third incompetent cervix. Drat those incompetent cervixes. The only cure is to promote them to uterus and get a new cervix in there....)
Karla with a K-- Dear Lord, when does this END?? We made it through the 8 hours of expulsion, but when will he be back on his feet, again? Oh, and it's sooooooo not your fault. See "the curse" Amy described above.
Sue G.--YOU WALKED AWAY FROM A VOMITING MAN IN FULL TRACTION?? Is it WRONG that I am still laughing about this?
Cheryl--Can I tell you I considered moving my family out to the car and setting fire to that whole wing of the house? Facing those soiled sheets, pajamas, towels, floor, wall, toilet, bathtub, etc. took every ounce of my being. I figured it was better to just cut our losses and rebuild. Does Home Owners Insurance cover Rotavirus Damage??
Now, Trish, I didn't walk away from the MAN...I walked away from the intercom. You see, I was sixteen and a junior volunteer. For some unknown reason, I was alone at the nurse's station when he buzzed. I was so full of myself and couldn't wait to use the intercom. I so sweetly sang, "Yes, Mr. Traction Guy (name changed in case he is now walking freely), this is Sue...how may I help you?" He started to say, "Sue, I think I'm going to be..." and then he proceeded to throw his guts up all over his poor, pinned-at-every-major-joint body. I flipped the intercom switch off and fought gagging. Suddenly, the light came on again. I looked furtively around for help, but no one was there. So, I answered the call and asked a tentative, "Yes?" "Never mind," he said. So I didn't.
I have lots of hospital junior volunteer stories. Thanks for giving me a reason to search the cobwebs of my mind to recall a few. Did I ever tell you about the time I ran out of an elevator, leaving the corpse I was transporting to travel down to the gift shop area? Word to the wise: Never use the public elevators when transporting a corpse. It's a mistake I know I will never make again!
And all that keeps running through my (childless I might add) brain, is the scene in "The Ya-Ya Sisterhood" where the one kid craps his pants, the other kid yarfs, and the mom happens to step in the soiled undies just as the other vomits on the floor...yeah...that's what I picture your house is like right now.
Also, i would like to point out that I was not the one that thought of the thanksgiving picture--my husband's old boss did this with his kid.
when my 2 oldest kids were 2 and 1 we went thru a week of puking and pooping...oh my that was 13 years ago and it is seared into my brain like it was yesterday...my 1 year old daughter...bless her tiny little heart...would vomit in her crib and go back to sleep...so that when i would go to get her in the morning it would be like getting hit it the face with vomitty vomit stench ...still a very vivid memory for me...she hardly ever does that any more - so i'd say you're pretty safe. .
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