Warning: Do not read this is you’re eating something and you are prone to sympathy gagging. I’m telling a gross story here.
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No Retreat, No Surrender buy So, last you heard, I was heading upstairs with a roll of paper towels to clean up old vomit. Boy, was that fun. I hate to tell the Bounty paper towel people, but I resorted to old cloth diapers because even a fancy, deluxe paper towel couldn’t handle vomit-soaked carpet.
Sunday afternoon, I took my 4-year old to the swimming pool for a couple of hours. She’s already swimming underwater with no fear or hesitation. I read my book (Stephen King’s On Writing) as much as possible, which was not much because every two minutes, she beckoned me, “Mom! Look at me!”
What a lovely afternoon of leisure. My husband cooked dinner when we returned home. After we ate, I continued reading. And then, oh, then the inevitable happened. My daughter cried out, “My tummy hurts!” and I heard a rustle in the hallway and shot to my feet. My husband was in the hallway, but I didn’t hear what he said, something about throwing up and I said, “IN THE TOILET! IN THE TOILET!” and he said, “She already did it!”
Oh. Yeah. She was screaming. A glistening puddle of vomit shone at her feet and I said, “Are you done?” and I lifted her over the puddle into the bathroom and she yurked right into the sink, all the while screaming. I said, “Okay, okay, are you done?” and she drooled a little and then I directed her to the toilet–at last, a bulls-eye–and she finished her puke-fest, then shrieked and cried some more until I said, “Are you done?” and she nodded and I said with perhaps a bit too much cheer, “Well, then, don’t you feel better?” and she agreed, but she still cried because she had vomit on her legs.
I ran the bath and while she soaked in the steaming water, I scooped up the shocking amount of vomit with toilet paper so I could flush it all.
Well, that sounds fun, doesn’t it? I’m lucky that I have no gag-reflex whatsoever.
This stomach churning continued through the night until 4:00 a.m. She spent most of the night on her bedroom floor, staring at the television, writhing around to escape her stomach pain, occasionally dry-heaving onto a towel. I spent most of the night suspended in that state between wakefulness and sleep, running every hour or so to her room to comfort her. (I realize that I sound like a terrible mother, leaving her to her illness, only checking in from time to time. I assume that she dozed off between cries.) At 4 a.m., she came into my room to inform me that her stomach felt better, so I said, “Good. Go get some sleep.”
I think she did. When I got up to walk at 6:15 a.m., I could see a sliver of light under her closed door, but she was quiet. I think she’d fallen asleep with the light on.
I did take a small nap Monday morning after my walk, but despite that, the day was a blur. Today, still, I’m bleary-eyed and tempted to take a nap, even though I’m not the napping type.