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Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Vomit Night For A Domestic Anti-Whore



Mommy Needs Vodka I Hate Vomit
www.mommyneedsvodka.com


The incident that inspired me to start this blog happened two days before Thanksgiving. Because I hate Mommy blogs. For the most part. At the same time I was ready to rip my hair out and instead took this desperate measure as a catharsis to vent. That night, both my kids vomited continuously for over 6 hours.

Just two weeks prior, I had “done my floors.” Which is a HUGE deal for me even with all of 812 square feet of a house. With the kids in daycare and a day off, I spent its entirety on my hands and knees—no Swiffer for me!—with a bucket and floor cleaner for the faux wood, and one of those honking heavy round interchangeable thingies that you have to pop different heads on and off for whatever the task requires. That was for the carpeted rooms. I swear to God I even crawled under the bed (pressed against the wall—in a house smaller than most people’s living rooms, you don’t have the luxury of a bed with space on both sides) with Q-tip swabs to get hitherto unreachable corners of the baseboards. For a claustrophobe to the core, this was above and beyond the pale. Plus it was a huge deal because I hadn’t done my floors in like two years. So it was bad. But I figured I’m good for another couple of years, right?

The other thing that played into Vomit Night was the fact that I had just decided that very day that I’m going to stop taking a prescribed anti-anxiety pill on those rare occasions when I have. I mean, it was a PACT that I made with myself. I’ve been taking far less than prescribed, but still. So I decided, that day, Tuesday November 23, I was going to skip my evening pill.

It was all looking good. Sometimes I’ve caved as early as 4pm, but usually by 7:30, and why bother past 9pm when my kids are in bed? To hit 9:30 without taking it, I felt like I’d run a fucking marathon and crossed the goddamn finish line.

I was all June-Cleaverish about the evening too. Gave both kids their baths, put them in their new “comfy cozy” PJ’s, we did group stories snuggled up together, it was all love and kisses.

Sure, Simon didn’t eat much at dinner and Jack had said a couple hours ago “my tummy hurts” which I waved off, but otherwise I had reached the cusp of my precious two hours per day of “Me Time.” Me needs my Me Time. Gotta have it.
I literally had just settled my ass into my Archie Bunker gaudy pastel rocker recliner—the only ugly piece of furniture in my home, I swear on my grandmother’s grave—but no one dare sit in mommy’s Archie comfy chair. When I heard Jack scream in fear, pain and agony, followed by those unmistakeable wretching noises and splattering that indicate the grossest thing we humans can do. According to me.

I ran in to his room and we just stood there frozen for a moment, horrified and shocked. Sure, he’d thrown up before, especially as a baby. But I’d never ever seen anything like this. I shit you not, there were chunks of his dinner sprayed from wall to wall, all over his bed, the floor, the wall, him, and even coming out of his nose. I was a deer in the headlights, after meeting those headlights BAM close.

Holy Fuck!—I’m sure was the expression on my face. But when you’re a mommy you gotta buck up in any situation, I don’t care how bad, and lie through your teeth if need be, to tell your offspring that this is no big deal really, Mommy will take care of it. It’ll be alright. I guided him to the bathroom, calmly saying all that bullshit about everything being just grand and fine. I had him blow his nose, I filled the bathtub, took off his PJ’s, and let him sit in there at his request while I went to his room and stripped the bed, grabbed a bucket, and began to scrub the worst of it off the floor.

I felt so bad for my little bear! But I also felt pretty damn bad for myself too, and wondered when I was going to get this bug, how much time off work, the whole nine. After his bath, he felt better, I put a new comfy cozy PJ on him, moved a toddler mattress into my bedroom with a bucket beside it knowing there would be more of this, and settled him in.

Went back to his bedroom that smelled as bad as a dead animal. Started to feel nauseous myself, (was I getting it?) from the smell alone mixed with lysoled sponges and the vision of little pieces of grape he’d eaten mixed with potatoes and gravy in half-digested form. I was hot as hell too, lightheaded, and yanked my shirt off and tossed it into the hall, opened the windows to allow fresh 5-degree air in, and rolled my PJ bottoms up to mid-thigh.

That’s when I caved. With resignation, I went to the cabinet and took my prescrip. It goes great with a half glass of white wine. I actually don’t drink much, so (gasp!) there are many times when I have no liquor in the house. I opened my fridge in panic and confirmed the worst—I was out of wine again.

My mom lives next door. I went over there and asked for just a smidge of a glass of her bottle of Muscato she’d received as a gift. “Pour me a glass too,” she said after seeing the dire situation. She drinks like two glasses of wine a year.

I won’t bore y’all with the rest—the fact that Jack threw up twice more all over himself before he got the hang of using the bucket, or that my other son walked into my bedroom at midnight and barfed white chunks all over the carpet. Or that this went on until I moved us all into the living room to sleep with buckets all over the damn room. Or that I thought it would never stop and went into the computer room to do email since it was an all-nighter. Last vomit time was 3:10am and I woke up at 3:30 with my head on the keyboard. Half asleep I clicked Send and went to bed.

People asked why I went to work the next day. Well, the boys slept all day and my mom offered to watch them and I wanted the hell out of there. By the time I got home they were fit as fucking fiddles (“Mommy, let’s play trains!”) while I was a fatigued bitch on wheels (“No, let’s watch Backyardigans”) and popped Excedrin like tic-tac’s to soothe my migraine.

Later I got an email from the friend I’d been writing when I fell asleep at the keyboard. She is so polite and sweet that she wrote in repsonse to the mumbo jumbo below, “I can’t figure out how to read the rest of the line, but I’m getting the jist of this.  How horrible!  Poor kids and poor  you.”

threw up next too, Mom  heard telling my mom. So I know gave it to myma the 

Not kidding about the purple font either, which I’ve never used. There was also a weird gif file attached, some stationary ad I must’ve clicked when my keyboard was that night’s pillow.
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1 comment:

  1. VOMIT is my second LEAST favorite thing.......mucous is my FIRST LEAST favorite thing. And I absolutely HATE (I am using the word *hate* here in all caps no less) I HATE TO VOMIT, hate the feeling of nausea~ the whole nine. I think every mom has had a similar evening. Were I you~ I'd have popped TWO of those magic pills...... <3 <3 <3 Ginger

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