The Long Vomit

If you’re planning to eat anytime soon — or are eating at the moment — save this post for later.

It has been a week since my last post, but no worries — I have not succumbed to fingernail jaundice. I’ve been dealing with lots of puke and two parties, and the two were not connected like they would’ve been in my college days.

It all started at midnight on Wednesday (well, technically Thursday). I was sitting in the living room waiting for my husband to come home from a Willie Nelson concert when Little Man ran into the living room. His wide eyes darted around in a sheer panic. Before I could ask what was the matter, he raised his hand to his mouth, and I knew. He dashed over to the trash can, but before I could yell, “The trash can is full [because I don’t like stinky things and I’m waiting on your dad to get home and empty it],” it happened. Puke everywhere.

I once described one of Baby Girl’s vomiting sessions as being like the nasty little girl in The Exorcist, but Little Man put them both to shame. If projectile vomiting were an Olympic sport, I think he’d have taken home the gold. He covered close to eight feet of my kitchen (including the trash can, island, and stuff on top of the island) with his vileness, which took me 1.5 episodes of Parks and Recreation (which he started watching while waiting to see if his stomach was settled before returning to bed) to clean.

Forget the Long Jump, we’ve got the Long Vomit.

I was hoping that it was something he’d eaten, since we had Baby Girl’s birthday weekend coming up, but it wasn’t. Not long after asking Baby Girl where she wanted to eat that night on Friday morning (her answers included “a wedding” and “chicky chicka,” a restaurant she made up), she covered me from head to toe with vomit. I jumped in the shower while my husband ran a bath to clean her off when I heard a blood curdling scream. I stuck my head out to ask what was wrong.

(I really hope you guys took my advice and aren’t eating right now.)

That wouldn’t be the last time we were puked on, as Baby Girl had an aversion to throwing up in the bucket we kept nearby. She informed me that she didn’t like throwing up in it, but wanted to throw up on ME. Just…what the hell did I do in a former life to deserve this?

Thankfully, like her brother, she was over the worst of it in about eight hours, and we didn’t have to cancel her birthday plans for the following evening. She spent her last day as a three-year-old snoozing in my arms between throw-up sessions. The puke sucked, of course, but I really enjoyed holding her all day and evening. It was like when I brought her home from the hospital again, except for instead of weighing five pounds, she weighed 30.

The rest of her birthday weekend went well. She had a Justice League themed birthday party, which was great, outside of The Pinata Incident. (Let’s just say that one should probably not take apart a t-ball set and give kids the adjustable tee to use to hit the pinata, as the adjustable part can go flying and hit one’s husband.)

So long, toddler years — they’re officially behind us, since we won’t be having anymore kids thanks to the snip-snip-sniparoo. Baby Girl should probably get a new blog nickname at this point (and so should Little Man, since he’s not so little anymore), but Little Woman and Medium Size Man don’t have quite the same ring to them.

 

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘C’ is for Cold

My husband appointed himself the Snot Czar of our household many years ago. This means that he takes it upon himself to handle the snot issues of Baby Girl, Little Man, and myself.

Yes, even mine. I’m a 34-year-old sort of adult, and my husband thinks it’s his job to clear my nasal passages.

You’re probably thinking, “Ew” and maybe even, “Well, at least he cares,” but here’s how he used to deal with that. Instead of running the dehumidifier or cool mist sprayer, whichever of those is meant for helping with congestion, and instead of giving me Mucinex or nasal spray, he would break out the bulb-style nasal aspirator.

The first time he offered, I thought, “Why not?” He used it on Little Man (a baby at the time) and it worked. How nice that he’d go that far to help me feel better, right? I wouldn’t do it for him. (They say that in a relationship there’s always one person who loves harder than the other person, and if the whole mucus/bulb thing is any indication, clearly he’s the one who is more smitten.)

Here’s why not: it’s what I imagine it would feel like if the zombies tried to suck out my brain through my nose during the apocalypse. Instead of just sticking the tip in and suctioning a bit out, he rammed the thing up there as far as he could and I’m pretty sure he came within a millimeter or two of puncturing my brain.

It didn’t help. He insisted that I just needed to be still, stop acting like a child and squirming around, and let him do his thing.

“No, I’ll just wait and let things clear up on their own.”

It’s all fun and games until your husband chases you throughout the house, determined to use this godawful suction thing on you in an attempt to help clear up some of the crud from the monthly sinus infection.

Baby Girl was prone to having colds pretty often when she was a baby, so we constantly looked for ways to make things easier on her. We made sure she was elevated when sleeping, used a VapoRub machine, and used a bulb to get the snot out. Those didn’t help a lot, but one day we found something that did wonders for Baby Girl’s snot:

That, my friends, is the NoseFrida Snotsucker. (You can see the real deal here, and this is not an affiliate link.) It works by placing one end into the baby’s nostril and sucking the other end. Thanks to a tube and filter deal in the middle, you don’t get boogers into your mouth. It works wonders. Baby Girl hated it as much as she hated the crappy bulb, because she hates all the things, but it worked incredibly well.

I sucked snot once and passed on doing it again, because I was concerned about breathing booger air, so my husband took over responsibilities. (For the record, I would have risked booger air had my husband not been around.)

True to form, not only did my husband use the Snotsucker on BG, he also tried to use it on Little Man and me. Little Man cried as much as BG when my husband tried to use it on him, and I threatened to strangle him with it if he went near me. It would have been a shame to become a headline over something like that.

You probably weren’t expecting a kinda gross story about mucus when you saw that I was doing a Blast to the Past theme, but trust me, this is far less gross and embarrassing than the other ‘C’ post I thought of.

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

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Like Moths To A Flame

As promised, I’m going to post about the stomach bug that made its way through our house. Aside from sleep or a Star Wars marathon, nothing good happens between the hours of midnight and six in the morning — not in my over 30 world, anyway. As such, I’m going to skip over certain details and mainly talk about my kids.

To get started, here’s an idea of how I looked last Tuesday after the late night festivities.

That’s not someone you’d want to be hanging out with, is it? No, that’s someone you’d want to send a text saying, “Hope you feel better, and stay the hell away.”

That’s how most people would act. Maybe a spouse would poke his head in and ask if I wanted a drink of water or something. Or maybe he wouldn’t and get on my shit list, cough.

As you’ve likely already gathered, my children aren’t most people.

The kids were told to stay out of my room, but nothing makes them want me more than a) being on the phone or b) being sick. It sounds like Baby Girl is trying to break the door down when my husband locks it, and Little Man will grab his library card and push it between the door frame and the lock to open the door. They both have their reasons for wanting to get to me, though — very different reasons.

Remember Baby Girl’s obsession with the doctor? She loves going, and when she knows someone isn’t feeling well, she becomes very opportunistic.

I had to break it to her that, no, I wasn’t going to the doctor. “This is a virus; we don’t go to the doctor for viruses.” Not the 24-hour type, anyway.

“We go to the doctor and get you a band-aid! And a shot! And she listen to your heart with the stethoscope!”

“No.”

“We get an ambulance and go to the hospital and see doctor there?” One last shot.

“No.”

And then she largely lost interest in me.

Now for Little Man.

Little Man is a very empathetic child — he can’t stand it when I’m not feeling well and is very protective and will fawn over me. He’ll take it upon himself to bring in a trash bag to throw up in, a cold drink, and a snack, and offer to turn on my favorite TV show. He makes my heart melt with his thoughtfulness, and he’s been this way as long as I can remember.

It’s hard to say “no” to that. I gave in to a quick cuddle, explaining that I didn’t want him to get sick, too. That brief cuddle was enough, though, since the next night, this happened —

He was fine at first, but a few hours later, I heard, “Mommy, I feel like…” and then the poor kiddo puked everywhere. He happened to be lying between my husband and me in the bed when it happened, so my husband woke up to less-than-pleasant circumstances.

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Life Goals #2

The past couple of days have been rough. I’ll post more later (plus a doodle that may or may not make you lose your lunch; I haven’t decided yet), but let’s just say that the sickness has hit the Dorky household yet again. New month, same problems — stomach bugs and colds.

So as not to go four days without a new post, I’m going to use this Life Goals post that I drew a while back and have been saving. (You can read Life Goals #1 here, if you’d like.)

Let me add “Dishes Mountain, Toys Mountain, and Puke Clothes Mountain” to that. Okay, maybe Puke Clothes Mountain falls under Clothes Mountain, but trust me when I say that it has earned its own category.

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