Saturday, January 27, 2007
"Vomithounds: You Better Be Good, or You'll Be Gone"
(methinks this gel has a vomit habit)*
Earlier this week, Girl was suffering from an undiagnosed Fever 'N Ague. We knew she had a high temperature. We could see her glassy eyes and flushed cheeks from our vantage point across the room, safely out of germ-jumping range. Plus, we tossed her a thermometer when it looked really serious. And we could sense something respiratory this way coming. She was hacking frequently and mightily...to the point that Monday morning she hacked up the contents of her stomach right onto our bed at 7:30 a.m. Then she paused, coughed some more, and did it again.
On the best of days, I am not a morning person. I should not be asked to operate kitchen appliances, find clean underwear, brush my teeth, or become at all vertical before, say, 11 a.m. Most of all, I should not be asked to deal with vomit on my down duvet before, um, ever o'clock.
But life is out there, as are sick kids, and so, after popping in some toast, diving into some Hanes, scrubbing my gums, and, yes, lurching upright in the process, I patted Girl's back and told her once she felt better, she could bike that soiled duvet down to the drycleaners.
Oh, all right, so actually I hollered for Groom, and we spent a few hasty minutes wiping up ravioli-shaped chunks of Spewed Kid Tummy before I rammed the duvet into a plastic bag and toted it out to the Camry, where it sat steaming (despite subzero temperatures outside) for 9 hours while I was at work, until I deposited it--holding the bag with a tongs--at the drycleaners.
At any rate, Girl's epizudy was later diagnosed as yet another round of strep, compounded by a chest rattle known medically as Crazae Lungum Germinus. Five days later, she's now finished her course of antibiotics and has re-entered the swirl of humanity (in a statement of social justice, I took her to a McDonald's Playplace when she was barely non-contagious and let her touch *everything*. I even had her lick the slide).
So we're all good.
And then tonight, twenty minutes after we ditched him into a bed of stuffed animals, Wee Niblet showed up in the tv room, interrupting our nightly date of BIG LOVE (Season 1 finale, no less) and huge bowls of posole. With a tear-streaked face, he attempted a guilt trip: "I cawed and cawed for you, but you didn't come. I phrewed up in my bed." As he spoke, a waterfall of vomit slid off his footed-pajamas, onto the floor.
"Honey, Mommy's going to need a minute to finish her beer first."
One big chug of Viking Pale Ale, and the Vomit Action Team was back in swing, with Groom handling the laundry while I stripped and re-footed Niblet, before feeding him ten grapes ("I phrewed up because I was coughing so much. Now I'm a weetle bit hungwy. For somefing soft. And do you wike the monsters I made today? Out of cardboard?").
In short, we're not sure how to dress during the Season of Vomit. Maybe chic Glad bags would be most practical, and if we wear them belted and with leggings, they could pass Red Carpet muster, I'm sure.
Somehow, though, I'm in a "Go ahead, World, and Hurl All Your Vomit My Way" type of mood right now. And it's most assuredly not because I'm watching a rerun of Ludacris hosting SNL, either. It's because I have a new musical love, and he has made me vewy, vewy happy.
If you have a couple of minutes, watch this fun exercise in acoustics.
I would clean up vomit with Fionn Regan any morning.
Even at 6 a.m.
If he did all the work.
*(photo from loafdude at photobucket.com)