WARNING: This post is gross. And GRAPHIC. And not for the faint of heart.
I am unhinged. I am nuts. I am so off m’dang rocker that… well, we’ll get to that later.
Today I only had to be responsible for getting my own behind to church, because my kind mother, who has noticed my “AAAAH I CAN’T HANDLE MY OWN LIFE ANYMORE” state of being offered to take my children away from me last night. Possibly for their own safety. I don’t know.
So she took them, and I had the opportunity to get ready for church in approximately 15 minutes* and sashay in like some carefree single gal.
Of course, then my kids showed up.
Which was fine, I guess, except that the youngest needed to be held, because Tummy Ache. And then why not, Tummy Ache turned to HOLY COW LET’S RUN TO THE BATHROOM. We made it. It was all cool. Except that, of course, another respectable church going person followed us in and got to hear my 3 year old rant. “Ooooooh, It was diaweeah. I had da diaweeah. Dat’s what was hurting my tummy. A WOT of diaweeah.”
Folks? He was not wrong.
So after going back to get the girls and then back to the bathroom and then to get the older brother and then back to the bathroom… and then back to the bathroom, and then back to the bathroom, we packed everyone into the car and headed for home. We almost made it to the freeway. Almost. So close.
The other kids were talking, telling stories and entertaining each other, so at first, I didn’t really notice that Harper had gone quiet. But a couple blocks in, I DID notice, and glanced back in the rear view. His eyes were huge and panicked, and his little arms were wrapped over his mouth.
My facial expression quicly matched his own as I scanned the car for… I dunno, some kind of anti-vomit solution? A time machine? But what I found instead was a plastic bag filled with fireworks in the passenger seat. And although my first couple of thoughts involved setting off said fireworks and just being done with the whole mess, but, I dunno. I guess I’m just a softy.
So I tore everything out of the plastic bag as quickly as I could and tried to open the bag and hand it back to my son behind me**… just as I watched him projectile vomit across himself and across my car. I gave him the bag anyway, and tried to be calming. “Just try to throw up IN the bag, Sweetie! It’s going to be okay! … Mommy still loves you!” I also found a beach towel that I threw at him for… absorbancy’s sake I guess, and then just watched in my rear view while he continued to throw up a weeks worth of food all over the everything.
My friends, what do you do when you’re still an 18 minute drive from home and your son has just vomited everywhere? I'd really, really like to know. For the next time we're hit with vom-pocolypse. I thought about pulling over. I really, very nearly did. But then it occurred to me that what I could do about the vomit on the side of the road was, well basically nothing, except spread it around and get it all over myself while I would still have to drive my up-chuck mobile back home. So instead I cracked all the windows and broke all the speed limits and did my best to hold my nose.
Because WOW. A boiling hot minivan filled with vomit is, well, a really special thing. The window thing helped for a minute or two though. The other three children stopped screaming about the smell, and I stopped having to control my own dry-heaving reflex. Until of course Harper, who was rather tired after his escapades, started to relax. And let go of his plastic bag.
It flew, of course. But not out the window like I kind of hoped. It just kinda… flew up and flopped around in the air for a minute. Not long, but enough so that a second or two later, the screaming started again.
“WHY IS IT IN THE BACK SEAT?!?” “WHAT IS HAPPENING!?” “THERE’S THROW UP ON ME!!!!!” “HOW IS IT IN MY HAIR?????”
So I closed the windows. Apparently, the windows thing wasn’t my best-laid plan.
In the shortest amount of time I’ve ever seen possible, we made it home. I stripped the kids, stripped the car, set up bubble baths, scrubbed upholstery, and threw a car seat straight into the trash. But not before I snagged a picture.
And I’m sorry, because it’s graphic. But I already told you that. So here ya go.
|My definite favorite part of this picture is the look on my 5-year-old's face. |
Needless to say, he did not take this well.
The moral of this story is that, pretty much every day this week, I have felt distress. I have cried. The kind of cries that are ugly and hyperventilate-y and can’t seem to find and end. I am SO at my end, that I got back into a particular old habit, and ran to the store for a pregnancy test. Because there has to be a reason for my crazy.
Apparently that reason is NOT pregnancy.
But yes. The moral here is that I am AT MY END. I’m too tired and too stressed and too behind and too weak for all of this. And I make sure God knows. Then he laaaaauuuuuuggggghhhs and he laughs and he laughs. Maybe he knows something I don't. And I’m sure there’s a lesson here. But I'm tired now, so I will try to learn it tomorrow.
Oh, by the way, someone is feeling much better now. But that person is not me.
*Pull up the hair, throw on the clothes, and brew a cup of coffee. It was like college. It was amazing.**All while driving, mind you. I feel like, if the police knew about me today, they would be SO OVER that whole texting issue they have.