The Boy has puked once a day, every day, for the last four days.
But yesterday he showed signs of improvement. No nausea. No fever. In fact, his energy level was high enough to force me into a corner where I curled up into the fetal position and went to my happy place (note to reader: my happy place usually involves bed & breakfast accommodations and wine).
I went to bed thinking the worst was over, except for whatever my mother (who, by the way, I'm thinking of referring to as Whore Mouth from here on out) was going through downstairs. Apparently, she has caught the disease from The Boy and she doesn't handle vomiting very well. In fact, I think she was crying at one point and asking God to make it stop.
My dream of being in a car race on a dirt road in Half Moon Bay was interrupted by The Boy's 12:30 AM wails.
"Mmmmmmom! Mmmmmom! I have to throw up ... I'm not going to make it!"
Fuck me. I've had enough of kids puking in floor vents. Not tonight. Not on my watch.
With lightening speed, I launch myself out of bed, run smack into a wall, rebound, fly into his room and simultaneously switch on the light switch while tripping over an abandoned Candyland game.
It was my brilliant idea to buy bunk beds. Now my pale faced son is about to lose his shit and can't make it down the ladder in time.
I reach up, balance The Boy's stomach on my head and ease him down.
"Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back."
Running to the bathroom with my son perched on my head, we make it just in time.
But my son is a rookie puker and lunges at the toilet at the wrong angle. He's now throwing up almost completely upside down.
With tears in his eyes and his little knees knocking he cries, "It burns! My nose burns!"
The next twenty minutes are devoted to blowing his nose in vain.
The Boy crawls into bed with me. With a designated puke bucket at the ready and a cold wash cloth on his forehead, I turn off the lights.
"Goodnight, Baby Boy."
"Goodnight, Baby Girl."
All is quiet except for the constant sniffing of The Boy who can't breathe out of his nose thanks to a trail of vomit left in his nasal passages.
Sniff. Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Chunk.
By now, I'm about to puke. I don't know whether I'm actually sick, or just sick of cleaning vomit and loose bowels.
Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Swallow. Swallow. Chunk. Sniff.
An hour and a half later, he falls asleep. The next morning he will ask for waffles and not eat them. I'll push enough caffeine in me to give a silverback gorilla the shakes and still be tired. I'll walk Boss Lady to school because she is unscathed from the disease (she tells me it's because she eats healthy) but not before she reads the paper (she says she likes to know what's going on in the world. She's five.) The bruise on my arm from running full speed into a wall will blossom. Whore Mouth will fret over what she should or should not eat. I'll write another post about vomit and remember the days when I used to write about vaginas and my imaginary boyfriends.
In non-puke related news, my underachiever achieved an average score and passed her GED!! And it looks like she might have landed a full-time job slingin' deli sandwiches. Yaaay Legal!!!