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Passing the puke test

Submitted by on Sunday, 1 June 2008 No Comment

Originally published June 10, 2007, thehive.modbee.com   

There are certain things I worried about before I had kids: Would I succeed in teaching them right from wrong? Would they grow into kind people? Could I instill in them values such as respect and regard for education?

But, most importantly, would I be able to handle it when they puke?

I’m only half kidding.

I can deal with any discomfort except nausea. I’ve smashed a femur and delivered two children and barely blinked. The broken leg was worse than labor, but that could be because I had no warning on the fracture. I was fairly certain with both kids that I’d have to deliver them sometime. With the leg, I didn’t exactly wake up one morning and plan to wreck a car.

I’d gladly break my other leg or go through labor again given a choice between those and a stomach bug.

And there’s a bad gene in my family that leads to mothers not being able to handle in their kids what they themselves fear.

With my mother, it was the sight of blood. That wreck I was talking about – she fainted three times before they got me out of the car. I told  the EMTs not to call her. Me, I was sitting there praying to pass out. No dice.

Thank heavens, that gene appears to have skipped me. I found that out for sure this weekend.

I was warned Friday when I picked the kids up that Little Guy had been a little out of it all day and, oh, by the way, there’s a pukey bug going around.

His bout was brief – an explosion my sister-in-law said looked like Niagara Falls. At dinner that night. In a restaurant.

I thought I was clear when both guys were hale and hearty Saturday. I didn’t even think much of it when Big Guy started complaining of a stomach ache today. Yeah, right.

He’d had a “stomach ache” as recently as Friday, when he wanted me to pick him up early because he knew we were meeting my brother and his wife after work..

He tossed his lunch all over the kitchen in order to convince me he was telling the truth. I gave myself many Bad Mommy Demerits for having doubted but, jeez, everyone’s heard the story of “The Boy Who Cried Barf.”

The afternoon hurl was the first of five, and the day’s not over. It’s one of those super-bad bouts, where water won’t stay down. I’m forever doing laundry because Bear keeps getting in the way, and there’s no way Big Guy can do sick without Bear. I haven’t seen this much of the spin cycle in one day since I was a political reporter.

I think the last session was as bad as it’s going to get, though. Big Guy couldn’t make it out of bed, so there I was, trying to strip the sheets without waking Little Guy. Miraculously, I succeeded. I transported him from bed to floor and back with nary a peep out, other than a sluuuuuufffffff that registered on the Richter scale.

Is he ever going to be surprised in the morning when his Lightning McQueen bedspread has disappeared.

Big Guy now has decided to sleep on the floor, so at least my fluff-fold duties are over. Unless I can figure out a way to fit the carpet in the washer.

Copyright 2007 Debra Legg. All rights reserved. 

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