The fun of yakking kids

Yes sweetheart, this is the perfect place to retch.

Having a kid with the flu is its own personal kind of hell – especially when they are little. Of all the things that kids learn as they are growing, I think that MAKING IT TO THE TOILET should be #1. I can handle a diaper with the poop squishing out the sides. I can scoop out the cat box after waiting a couple weeks without even wrinkling my nose hardly. I am able to clean my car somewhat cheerfully when my children have decided that the seat cushions are a great place to store a cheese sandwich – for two months (I’m telling you, that’s a whole other kind of “cheese touch” going on). But a child that has just yakked all over the floor, and then looks up at me with those big blue eyes? Dude, kid. Seriously? You really expect me to clean that up when it isn’t even MINE? Excuse me while I add some of my own yak to it.

I still remember the time when my daughter had a strain of the flu known as the Poltergeist Puke at age 3. She projectile vomited everywhere EXCEPT the toilet, decorating our house with the sour contents of her stomach. Much like potty training itself, she did nothing when she was in front of the toilet. But pull her away, and let’s just say that was about the same period of time when I decided that I was feeding her too much.  It is pretty much impossible to clean up that kind of mess a) without heaving yourself, and b) effectively enough to get rid of any staining or smells associated with it.  It’s pretty much time to move when your child throws up on the carpet.

Last night I was woken up by a light rapping on my door, and my son’s voice on the outside.

“Mom, I threw up about 5 times,” he said. My poor baby was sick. And all I could think about was how I really, really, really didn’t want to clean up his barf at 2 am in the morning. I opened the door, and he gave me a miserable look. As if reading my mind, he confirmed that he made it in the toilet.

I’m pretty sure that the heavens opened up at that point and angels were singing.

“You don’t want to go in there,” he added. And I agreed. I didn’t. He went back to bed with a bowl for emergency use, and was probably up a couple more times after that, safely making it every time.   And me, I slept in between bouts of him blowing chunks, and only awoke when he let me know that it had happened again but that he had handled it. 

At 9 years old, the kid is amazing.

But the poor kid. He was so pale when he woke up this morning. And his stomach was empty. He still won’t eat, so I’ll work some magic with a smoothie from Jamba Juice. But don’t feel too bad for the kid. He’s been working on his computer screen tan by sitting at the computer for hours playing games. He says he feels much better. But if he gives me the flu….


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