The joys of parenthood are endless; the sweet smiles, watching your children grow and learn, knowing you'll never love anyone else on this planet as much as those tiny humans. I try to remind myself of the amazing gift being a mother is when things are particularly horrible. This was one of those evenings:
“Once all of the living things were cleaned, dried, and put to bed, I began clean-up.”
About a year ago, I had a brand new baby boy - my second, following his big brother who was about 2.5 at the time. I also had an adorable, 21 year old cat named Buttenz. We were winding down for the night and I sat on my bed, nursing the baby while kitty slept peacefully next to him. My toddler mosied in from the other room to tell us goodnight. He crawled up the stairs to our bed (the cat stairs, of course, because she was 21 and our bed is super tall) and just as he reached the top, projectile vomited all over us. We're talking vomit soaking me, the cat, the newborn. Everyfuckingwhere. I screamed for my husband and held up the dinner plate from my quesadilla to help catch the throw up. And he just. kept. throwing. up. Keep in mind, my toddler no longer has cute, easy-to-manage baby throw up. He has full-on, adult throw up. And he had pizza and milk for dinner. Awesome.
My husband grabbed him and ran him to the tile floor in case he kept going (he did) and I sat there, soaked from head to tow and unable to even process what had just happened. The logical place to start was the newborn with zero immune system to fight off whatever plague his big brother had brought home from daycare. Hubby took baby to hose him down, and I picked up Buttenz and carried her to she shower. In 21 years of life, this poor cat had never needed a shower. Now, in the middle of the winter, weighing only 4.5 pounds, she huddled in the corner of the shower as I washed her with Herbal Essences and we both cried.
Once all of the living things were cleaned, dried, and put to bed, I began clean-up. After my initial assessment, I briefly considered burning my entire bed and starting over. There was vomit on top of the bed where we had sat, dripping down the side of the mattress, into the cracks of the running board, all over the nightstand, the kitty stairs, the lamp, and finally the carpet. Red, pizza vomit. My eyes watered as I tried to hold my breath and scrub, gagging and wishing I could rewind the clock a few years and talk myself out of becoming a parent. It was too much and my hormones were out of control from the new baby, anyway. I finished cleaning up about an hour later, just in time to hear toddler crying from his room. We rushed in to find that he had emptied the rest of his stomach contents (HOW was there so much left in there? Did you eat a whole fucking pizza?!) while asleep, and his head was covered in it. I look at him, looked at my husband, and walked out of the room to cry some more.
Hubby took care of showering toddler (again) and he started the first load of our stomach bug laundry. An hour later, I went downstairs to move the laundry to the dryer and discovered that he had just chucked everything inside the washer without first rinsing out the chunks. Ummmm, there isn't a garbage disposal in there! Whaaaatttt the actual fuck has happened to my life?! After swearing a bit (lot) and wishing I could go back even further and talk myself out of marriage, I began picking washed vomit chunks from the clothes and inside of the washing machine. At least it was clean vomit though, amiright?
It has been over a year since this happened and I am just now feeling strong enough to talk about it. I've been thrown-up on several times since, but none as utterly devastating and disgusting as that evening. Every time my kids barf, or pee on the wall, or sneeze in my mouth, or are just plain assholes, I remind myself how much I love these tiny little beings and how lucky I am that they are mine. #blessed