I haven’t thrown up in a while. More than 10 years. My last time was not illness related – for better or worse my stomach is pretty iron clad. But there was a period of time, however, that I seemed to occasionally find myself in bars with spoiled ice cubes and poisonous shot glasses. And even more occasionally they would cause me to throw up.
In those circumstances, however, I was polite enough to throw up outside, or in a toilet or maybe a garbage can.
Not my kid though. She’s not polite about throwing up at all.
What a nice dinner!
She and I had a very nice dinner together, which is fairly unusual because of all the fighting and the screaming and the throwing. And the lack of actual eating. But this time was different. She ate that penne up.
Penne is my second favorite, right behind shells, because it holds the sauce in. We talked all about it!
Fast forward 2 hours
She let it go. All of it. Right in her bed. There was little warning and there was certainly no effort to get to the bathroom.
One second she’s rolling around a bit. The next there is a plate-sized pile of penne a la vodka right next to her. And on her, obviously.
It looked exactly the same as on the plate. Fully formed penne, in that pink sauce, just sitting on her sheets. It even smellt the same…with just a slight aroma of vomit. It was…terrible.
The kid is whisked away and there I am, staring at dinner.
How do you clean that up?
I have to admit, my first instinct (after flight) was to ball the sheet up with the vomit inside, and run it down to the washing machine and just dump it all in. So basically, for a brief moment, I thought about putting a full plate of dinner in our washing machine. I need to get it together.
I brought the garbage pail in. I considered using a serving spoon. But in the end, I just scooped it up with my hands, with a pathetic layer of cheap paper towels protecting my soft blogger hands.
The feeling of it…of picking up vomit…ugh. Honestly I would have been slightly squeamish about picking up pasta BEFORE it was partially digested.
This experience has left a mark.
But of course it wasn’t over.
Poor thing (me), she wasn’t even close to done. The third time I was there in time, pot in hand and got it under her mouth before she let go.
NO! She was outraged about the pot! She plain refused to use it, displaying a previously unseen tight-fisted control over the puking.
Not enough to get to the bathroom, which was also rejected as an option. Just enough to direct it onto the carpet, onto herself, and onto me.
It went on. We ran out of sheets, and were scraping the bottom of the pajama drawer.
This all makes me wonder, if we were in a restaurant…am I responsible for cleaning? Or getting the kid clear? Because if it’s the latter I could be spending a lot more sick nights moving from diner to diner. Undigested food for thought.
I drive a minivan and ride a motorcycle.
Enjoying the piss out of parenting - 2 kids, a girl born in 2013 and a boy in 2015.