Editor's note: The review of this week's True Blood is being interrupted to bring you breaking news on a stomach virus that has attacked the Bear. The review will be posted tomorrow, pending no additional vomiting.
I hate puke.
As in, really hate it. It's my least favorite thing out of everything the body manufactures. I can handle urine, poop, boogers, sweat - hell, I practically bathed in breast milk for a year. I'd even take blood (small amounts, please) over vomit. Because the only thing puke does to me is make me want to, well, puke.
::shudder::
Remember how I mentioned I was sick on the Fourth of July? Yeah, blowing chunks of spare ribs out of your nose will definitely turn you off to that food group in the future. Brian got sick on Wednesday, and then all was quiet in our little family of three. I really thought (stupidly) that Scotty had escaped the grips of this virus.
And then yesterday, I was reminded Motherhood is all about perspective.
I got home from the gym about 1:30. Brian and I promptly high-fived, and he headed out the door. I begrudgingly set about cleaning the bathrooms when I heard Scotty start screaming upstairs at 1:45. That was a super short nap, I thought, and tried to contain my irritation as I pulled off my rubber gloves. I can't even find the time to scrub a toilet...grr...
And when I walked in his room, the sour stench of vomit practically made me keel over. His blankets, his animals...everything, including himself, were coated in pink, chunky goo. He was wailing sad, sad tears. It was like his whole crib had been slimed.
Not sure what to do, I wadded all of the blankets into the hamper and set about picking chunks out of Scotty's hair. Finally giving in that a.) I was stinky from the gym and b.) my baby was covered in vomit, I threw him in the shower and jumped in, too. He hated the water. Absolutely hated it. But at least the pink was coming out of his hair and I was not a sweaty mess anymore.
I gave him some crackers and water and settled in for a little Bob the Builder action. (yes we can!) On the DVD was an additional video of a British cartoon called Fireman Sam, and by the fourth viewing (as the Bear sat silently in my lap), I realized that Fireman Sam was actually kind of cute. On the fifth viewing, I found myself looking at his hand for a wedding ring (never mind that I myself am married and he doesn't really exist.) On the sixth viewing, Scotty hurled crackers and water all over the couch, the carpet, and me.
I turned off Fireman Sam and totally panicked.
The Bear kept puking. All over. The bathroom, in the waste basket, in his hair, on the towel. All pink, all super, super smelly.
Brian arrived home from the gym and I called Scotty's ped. She was just leaving her office and referred us to the nearest ER. With his fifth shirt on for the day (the first four were piled in a disgusting pile in the laundry room), we headed out the door. I tried in vain to get Scotty to puke into a bucket as Brian drove, but he turned his head at the last minute and hit me and most of his car seat. And himself, of course.
So remember what I was saying about perspective? My grumpiness about cleaning a bathroom quickly evaporated as a I carried my vomit-covered child into the local hospital, but not before he managed to press his puke-stained shirt directly into my shoulder and face, ensuring the most amount of chunk-age could stick to me. Did I mention it was 105 degrees yesterday?
See? All about perspective. Those bathrooms don't look so bad now, huh?
Scotty put on a total show for the ER staff. After howling like a wolverine when his vitals were checked, he calmed down and turned into a little ham. He coo'd at the doctor, said hi to everyone walking by, and acted like he had never puked a day in his life. I bet the hospital staff thought we were neurotic parents freaked out by a little upchuck. I'm not saying I was hoping Scotty would puke while we were at the hospital, but it certainly would have verified our claims.
So we walked out, nary a prescription in hand, and watched as the kid heaved his little guts out in the car ride home. Gallons of puke, let me tell you. All over him, all over the car seat. And all while sniffling and crying, like, "Momb! Make it stop." We stripped him naked and draped towels all over the house as Brian and I tackled the mountain of pukey stuff in front of us. As Scotty rolled naked on the carpet, Brian stood over him and said quietly, "You know we really love you, right? Because this is really gross."
Right now, we are 19+ hours with no additional vomiting. He's keeping down some crackers, a banana, and 2 oz of applesauce. When I put him down for his nap, he felt warm, so maybe his body is fighting this virus off. All I know is I have more laundry to do and some serious scrubbing ahead of me. Fun times.
I hate puke.
As in, really hate it. It's my least favorite thing out of everything the body manufactures. I can handle urine, poop, boogers, sweat - hell, I practically bathed in breast milk for a year. I'd even take blood (small amounts, please) over vomit. Because the only thing puke does to me is make me want to, well, puke.
::shudder::
Remember how I mentioned I was sick on the Fourth of July? Yeah, blowing chunks of spare ribs out of your nose will definitely turn you off to that food group in the future. Brian got sick on Wednesday, and then all was quiet in our little family of three. I really thought (stupidly) that Scotty had escaped the grips of this virus.
And then yesterday, I was reminded Motherhood is all about perspective.
I got home from the gym about 1:30. Brian and I promptly high-fived, and he headed out the door. I begrudgingly set about cleaning the bathrooms when I heard Scotty start screaming upstairs at 1:45. That was a super short nap, I thought, and tried to contain my irritation as I pulled off my rubber gloves. I can't even find the time to scrub a toilet...grr...
And when I walked in his room, the sour stench of vomit practically made me keel over. His blankets, his animals...everything, including himself, were coated in pink, chunky goo. He was wailing sad, sad tears. It was like his whole crib had been slimed.
Not sure what to do, I wadded all of the blankets into the hamper and set about picking chunks out of Scotty's hair. Finally giving in that a.) I was stinky from the gym and b.) my baby was covered in vomit, I threw him in the shower and jumped in, too. He hated the water. Absolutely hated it. But at least the pink was coming out of his hair and I was not a sweaty mess anymore.
I gave him some crackers and water and settled in for a little Bob the Builder action. (yes we can!) On the DVD was an additional video of a British cartoon called Fireman Sam, and by the fourth viewing (as the Bear sat silently in my lap), I realized that Fireman Sam was actually kind of cute. On the fifth viewing, I found myself looking at his hand for a wedding ring (never mind that I myself am married and he doesn't really exist.) On the sixth viewing, Scotty hurled crackers and water all over the couch, the carpet, and me.
I turned off Fireman Sam and totally panicked.
The Bear kept puking. All over. The bathroom, in the waste basket, in his hair, on the towel. All pink, all super, super smelly.
Brian arrived home from the gym and I called Scotty's ped. She was just leaving her office and referred us to the nearest ER. With his fifth shirt on for the day (the first four were piled in a disgusting pile in the laundry room), we headed out the door. I tried in vain to get Scotty to puke into a bucket as Brian drove, but he turned his head at the last minute and hit me and most of his car seat. And himself, of course.
So remember what I was saying about perspective? My grumpiness about cleaning a bathroom quickly evaporated as a I carried my vomit-covered child into the local hospital, but not before he managed to press his puke-stained shirt directly into my shoulder and face, ensuring the most amount of chunk-age could stick to me. Did I mention it was 105 degrees yesterday?
See? All about perspective. Those bathrooms don't look so bad now, huh?
Scotty put on a total show for the ER staff. After howling like a wolverine when his vitals were checked, he calmed down and turned into a little ham. He coo'd at the doctor, said hi to everyone walking by, and acted like he had never puked a day in his life. I bet the hospital staff thought we were neurotic parents freaked out by a little upchuck. I'm not saying I was hoping Scotty would puke while we were at the hospital, but it certainly would have verified our claims.
So we walked out, nary a prescription in hand, and watched as the kid heaved his little guts out in the car ride home. Gallons of puke, let me tell you. All over him, all over the car seat. And all while sniffling and crying, like, "Momb! Make it stop." We stripped him naked and draped towels all over the house as Brian and I tackled the mountain of pukey stuff in front of us. As Scotty rolled naked on the carpet, Brian stood over him and said quietly, "You know we really love you, right? Because this is really gross."
Right now, we are 19+ hours with no additional vomiting. He's keeping down some crackers, a banana, and 2 oz of applesauce. When I put him down for his nap, he felt warm, so maybe his body is fighting this virus off. All I know is I have more laundry to do and some serious scrubbing ahead of me. Fun times.
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