I love being thrown up on (said no mother, ever).
I really do hate vomit, like nothing else, I hate it. I hate doing all of the laundry after. Puke laundry is the most miserable type of laundry in the world. It smells, it stains and the pre-cleaning part of it is…
Right, there’s no need to explain it to you.
Sometimes it all makes me sit back and wonder:
A) How did I get appointed the cleaner of the puke?
B) Why must my son stand on the stairs when he throws up?
C) Why must he lose his bladder, lose his bowels and lose his breakfast all at the same time? (On my stairs)
D) Why did he sneeze on me after?
E) Why didn’t I picture this when I imagined what motherhood would be like?
But the other part is that it’s so hard to see them sick. They’re not themselves. They’re quiet. Little.
My boy isn’t his usual hurricane self, and as crazy as it seems when I think about it, when he lies there snuggling into me, curled up and glassy eyed, voice soft, it makes me crazy. As much as always I think I want him to behave and just quiet down and listen to me, when he gets this way and does – it makes me realize how much his wild, super-charged energy is what makes him, well, him.
I also don’t understand why my child being sick is so exhausting to me.
It can’t be the energy I waste on worrying. It’s probably not the 100 trips up and down the stairs doing load after load of laundry, because stripping and changing a bed and his pajamas all day long isn’t actually all “that much” work. It can’t be the effort it takes to get the toast just the right amount of crispy and the tea not too hot and not too cold and not too sweet and not too tea-ish, like he wants it, just so he’ll keep down some fluids. It can’t be the 12 times he woke me up to tell me he can’t sleep. It can’t be the hours I spend watching him breathe, toss, turn and sleep restlessly, nestled into my side, hoping he won’t throw up again.
Oh, but maybe it’s that I’ve had to go through this twice. Just can’t wait till it’s my turn.