Sometimes, after a particularly tough day of parenting, I step back and think about how I never would have imagined myself in some of these situations. This past week has been an excellent example of that.
We’ve been dealing with a whole lot of barf. Feel free to click away now if you are squeamish.
Littleman started first, coming down with some sort of stomach virus after attending a Christmas party last weekend. Being almost four, he’s getting a lot better at signalling that he’s going to be sick, but he still doesn’t have the speed and/or control needed to make it to the toilet every time. Enter the barf bowl. After spending a horrific night up to my elbows in vomit while cleaning the bathroom and all Littleman’s bedding (alone, since D was working night shift!), Littleman finally got the hang of using the bowl that I’d place strategically beside him wherever he was playing. After 24 hours of illness, Littleman was playing while I took a shower. D was hanging with Littleman until Bo woke up from a nap. Both us parents were upstairs when we heard Littleman calling for us. I bolted down the stairs and saw him, standing on the bottom step, barf bowl in his arms. I was so proud! “Way to go, buddy! Did you get any on you?” I asked. “No,” he said. “But my feet have pee on them.” Oops. Poor little guy had peed his pants when he threw up. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.
After a few days in the clear, Bo got it. After his first nursing session of the morning, he promptly spewed it all back out on me. Kind of gross, but nothing like cleaning up after his brother. Or so I thought. Later that evening, I took him upstairs for bed. He’d nursed well throughout the day, so I wasn’t really worried about it. Then, boom, he hit me again. I jumped up out of the chair and called for D to come help me clean up. That was when the real barf hit. OMG. It felt like someone threw a bucket of puke at me. My bra was soaked through my clothes. My belt was covered. My jeans. My socks. I gingerly stepped out of my clothes as barf ran down my belly. Oh god, it was disgusting.
It’s funny when you’re thinking of (and hoping to) become a parent, you picture yourself cradling a sweet infant or playing at the park with a smiling preschooler. You don’t, typically, envision yourself covered in someone else’s vomit. Or with someone’s poo on your arm. Or standing in someone’s pee. But, as it turns out, I love these two boys, bodily fluids and all. Let’s just hope they can keep it to a minimum for a while… this mama needs a break!