End of another week. My posts haven’t been as frequent due to round 411 of this fucking stomach bug. Seriously. My middle dude seems to pick it up more than anyone else. So he’s had it twice in the last week. Just when I start to think we are getting through this… Mama…? It’s coming. Racing up the stairs, clutching his body, turning to head back down the stairs and… Yup. All over me. In my hair. Dripping down the stairs. Oh my God. What the hell just happened? While husband is showering Mooch, Mama has now stripped and is cleaning up some of the vilest vomit with diluted vinegar –because some idiot (ugh, me) decided it would be a good idea to break up with the Clorox. Idiot. While I am cursing myself out for that stupid decision, near-naked, I realize I have quite a night ahead of me. My prediction was dead-on.
So I think we are in the clear and three days over again: Hello, Vomit! Missed you so! This time the stairs were safe however, the carpet and sheets took a hit. Not in my hair- but in his and just on the shoulder of my shirt. Only for the rest of the day, I can smell throw up. You know what I’m talking about, right? Where you know you catch a whiff and then you start sniffing like a lunatic trying to locate some shred of evidence to support the stench? I’m not the only one who does this, right? Right…? But then you don’t smell it anymore. Life goes on. And all of a sudden, while playing the 506th game of Connect Four, I get the whiff again. Pulling out my own shirt, I locate the source: a dime-sized chunk of vomit stuck to the inside of my sports bra (yes, I’m still wearing the same one from last night, no I have not showered and no you can’t judge me). What the fuck. This is my life.
Now this may all seem very gross to you- even if you have kids. But I bet you can relate. And if you don’t have children, well, I should apologize because after reading that you may not ever want them. But if you have stuck with me thus far, keep reading.
All of this throw up and lost sleep, carpet cleaner, laundry and scrubbing also brings some good stuff too. Like watching them sleep. (Okay, I’ll admit it, I am obsessed.) In addition to swearing slow and painful torture on the culprit who wakes said child, I get the privilege to witness their peace- the steady rise and fall of their chest, those soft pink lips, the sweaty little palms holding tight to your own. The gentle flicks of their eyelids. Staring, searching their faces for hints of change or age; memorizing every contour of that plump chin and those fleshy, warm cheeks. It’s bliss. And then comes the upchuck of bile and the acidic remnants of last nights dinner. Instant replay.
It’s in these moments of bliss that I realize two things (1) They are fleeting and (2) I’m actually really patient and kind when helping my children through incredibly stressful, terrible situations (getting barfed on is about as bad as it gets…) yet in those times of normal stress, I kind of suck. The annoyances of every day life seem to, well, annoy me the most. Those ridiculous noises, the random yells, repetition of song lyrics, whining, not listening and sluggishness when it’s time to get out the door. If I can deal with vomit in my hair (and in my fricken bra for half the day) why can’t I deal with the little shit? Good question.
I need to be more patient. I need to dig deep. This week, I shall. One week from tomorrow, I leave my children for four days. Leaving on a jet plane to Denver for work. I’m going to miss them terribly. And I know they will miss me. This week, before I go, I am making it count. I am going to give them my ultimate patience. And I’m sure you’ll hear about it. How hard it is, how I may fail but how hard I am going to to try. As I was reminded recently by a friend, I need to rediscover the No Yell Challenge. It is really hard. But it’s really important. Join me. It will be far less repulsive then vomit in your bra.