Projectile Vomit

WARNING: Multiple hilarious and pointedly placed use of the word ‘fuck’.  #creditpogo

Don’t you love it when mornings and blogs begin with projectile vomiting. No? Me either. Unfortunately when you have a 2yo and 4yo in childcare things from time to time turn ugly and this morning was one of those foul episodes.

No I will spare you some of the gory details, I know thank me later, but not all because what would be the fun in that? Besides, it’s always lovely to read about someone’s fleeting misfortune as it makes you feel normal and all warm inside that it is not you covered in spew.

If ever your house is overflowing with crap, mess for days, shit everywhere. Just watch an episode of hoarders. You will feel instantly normal and probably epically neat. It’s a goldmine I’m telling you. Unless you are unable to see the floor or have mouse poo littered everywhere you are fine, trust me.

So this morning my little boy who never wakes up cranky, woke up cranky. I should have known right there, but you know, I needed coffee so quickly parked him in front of “Bing” the rabbit the size of an elephant (literally watch the show) and ignored my mothers ‘gut’. The internal one and the one making my pants uncomfortable.

I then proceeded to get ready, I am surprisingly fast despite being down to one arm. I showered, washed my hair, got coffees, gave kids their milk (I was going to regret that later), put on my makeup, got dressed, packed my overnight bag, dried my hair, put on my jewellery (harder than it sounds) in approximately 35 minutes. In case you are wondering, that is WILDLY IMPRESSIVE. Even by two arm standards.

As I was sweeping the house ready to make my exit to work and later the airport I hear a scream of a toddler being murdered. Now given he is wrapped in a blanket on the lounge I thought murder or even serious injury was unlikely but the pitch of the scream had my attention. I darted into the lounge room where I could see a ‘bit’ of spew on his little darling face and as I leaned in a vomit likened to the exorcist came forth, followed by another.

How can such a small human contain so much vomit? It defies science I tell you. It also upsets the toddler from which the spew has flown immensely. I said “SHIT!!” So many times Husband came running in and my daughter was hiding on the stairs.

Straight into the bath where we ‘hosed’ the poor child, however he was so distressed I had to strip off the top layer of clothes and climb in with him so he would calm down. I also told Husband it was probably not a good idea to try and hose the spew out of his open mouth.

As only a child can once the spew was off him and he smelled better he started laughing and trying to hose everyone else, happy as Larry. The resilience of a child is nothing short of remarkable. It was my daughter who was the most upset and ‘frightened’ from what she called all the ‘spit’ flowing out of her brother. And then quickly said “I never do that do I?”.

Now the point of this story is that when I first went to him on the lounge I was unable to grab him because I didn’t have my sling on, Colin was flapping around like a useless mad bird, and I didn’t want to hurt him – the kid not Colin. Colin is fucked. Luckily Husband flapped in to rescue both of us and consequently my son wanted only Daddy after the event. Given I was the one in the bath having spew washed into my freshly washed hair, I found this offensive frankly.

Especially when you consider how hard it is to wash, comb, blow dry and style long hair with one arm! Offensive. #sufferingfordays

Also when you are the mother anytime your kids give you the ‘no thanks’ response you instantly feel rage (fucking kid don’t you know I am working to keep this bloody roof over your ungrateful head), guilt (if I didn’t work he would love me more), anger at Husband (I would be the favourite too if I had two friggen arms) and necrosis (as I die a little inside everytime this happens).

It’s hard being a mother, especially with only onegoodarm. Dot com.

So similarly to when my horse was stuck in the fence my disability becomes front of mind when things go wrong and I am sure my baby boy wondered why I was not picking him up when he really needed me to. That look in his eyes was a killer.

I also didn’t have the heart to tell him that he stunk like dogshit, and was covered in lumps. So you know, gross.