2012 started with an explosion. At 3:30 am Steve and I were awakened by horrendous screams. I ran to M's room to hush her before she woke J. I am not the picture of compassion in the wee hours of the morn. I harshly whispered, "Why are you crying?" She said, "This." I flipped on the light to find her in a pool of vomit. I ran to get Daddy's help and raced her to the bathroom while Steve cleaned her bed. M hugged the toilet and retched repeatedly. I patted her back while I dry heaved right along side her. (I am a sympathetic gagger.) Now why in the world would I write about this? Because she was absolutely adorable in the depths of her anguish. M does not throw up and this was the first time she was old enough to realize what it felt like to have your guts stage a revolt. Here was her commentary in her most confused, pathetic voice possible:
"I don't want to throw up".
"I need to stop".
"I'm sick".
"I need some medicine".
"I felt it come up".
"I need to throw up some more".
"It's not coming out".
And my personal favorite...
"But why"?
It was drama city that night. At some point Steve wanted to scrub the bathroom because he imagined a wayward splash from the toilet when it was flushed. I sent him out to put sheets on M's bed. M and I were in the bathroom for an hour before I wondered why it was taking Steve so long to change her sheets. I ran into her room when she was taking a break and saw him with his hands in the air and the sheets on the floor and the bed still not made. What was going on you ask? That's funny. I asked the same thing. Well, my germaphobe husband wanted me to open the door to the garage so he could set the things outside to be washed in the morning. "Why didn't you open the door"? "Because I did not want to spread germs". I gave him the most incredulous look I could muster at 4:30 in the morning, told him he had serious issues, and opened the garage door for him. Then I put sheets back on her bed. He is a doting Daddy as long as vomit is not on the menu and in all fairness he did wipe up the vast majority of the gastric surge.
M and I stayed up watching George of the Jungle until I was sure she would not throw up again and then we crawled back into bed at 6:00 am.
Happy New Year.
"I don't want to throw up".
"I need to stop".
"I'm sick".
"I need some medicine".
"I felt it come up".
"I need to throw up some more".
"It's not coming out".
And my personal favorite...
"But why"?
It was drama city that night. At some point Steve wanted to scrub the bathroom because he imagined a wayward splash from the toilet when it was flushed. I sent him out to put sheets on M's bed. M and I were in the bathroom for an hour before I wondered why it was taking Steve so long to change her sheets. I ran into her room when she was taking a break and saw him with his hands in the air and the sheets on the floor and the bed still not made. What was going on you ask? That's funny. I asked the same thing. Well, my germaphobe husband wanted me to open the door to the garage so he could set the things outside to be washed in the morning. "Why didn't you open the door"? "Because I did not want to spread germs". I gave him the most incredulous look I could muster at 4:30 in the morning, told him he had serious issues, and opened the garage door for him. Then I put sheets back on her bed. He is a doting Daddy as long as vomit is not on the menu and in all fairness he did wipe up the vast majority of the gastric surge.
M and I stayed up watching George of the Jungle until I was sure she would not throw up again and then we crawled back into bed at 6:00 am.
Happy New Year.
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