In Which Vomit Figures Heavily

January 21, 2014 by Rieshy
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As a young, rosy cheeked and bloated first time pregnant woman I had a lot of daydreams of what motherhood would entail.  I was realistic (ha!), I knew that childhood illnesses were part and parcel of the gig- but I only envisioned a slightly feverish, sweet smelling child lying in bed and looking up adoringly while I read the Velveteen Rabbit out loud and simultaneously served herbal teas and warm home-made bone broths.  Bodily fluids never entered my imagination.  Bunk beds never entered my imagination.

Vomit certainly never made an appearance in any daydream I've ever had.  Vomiting from bunk beds?  Nope not in my repertoire of mothering images.

My husband was the first discoverer of the initial episode of high altitude hurling.  I'm pretty sure he never daydreamed about lovingly stroking the sleeping forehead of a precious child in a top bunk while simultaneously stepping his bare feet into vomit.

A day later and with people on the mend I made a foolish decision, after all nothing could happen in the time it took me to take a relaxing 2 mile run in rare January sunshine, right?

Let's just say that I am currently taking a break from steam cleaning the boy's room and am thankful to God that their bookshelves are on the opposite side of the room because pretty much everything else was baptized by a second rain of disgustingness from yet another child during my relaxing run.

Really?  Really?  The Cretans had toilets several thousands of years ago yet my children remain unfamiliar with them?

My husband moved the furniture and later today I'm repainting.  I kid you not- I have to repaint.  My first choice would be a flame- thrower but I'm always thwarted from that by the difficulty in finding one to rent.

  I would resign but for my many blessings:


  1. My secret stash of emergency chocolate.
  2.  My 21 year old son who has helped with the clean-up, twice.
  3.  My 19 year old daughter who kept me company through the night while I fed my medically fragile 7 year old every hour until he was better.
  4. My husband, not because of how great a Dad he is (which he is) but because now I will always be able to laugh when I think of his feet.




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1 comment:

Renee K. said...

The love of a child knows no bounds. I'm glad they are on the mend.

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