When the boys were babies, I’m talking bottle-phase, they had reflux. All. The. Time. But it was never really “vomit” in the traditional sense. That was the aspect of parenting young children that I knew would be one of my biggest challenges.
You see, I’ve always been a person that has an easy gag reflex. Just hearing someone else gagging or puking is enough to put me over the edge. Of the toilet. So I knew that when the day came that I would have to handle vomiting children (yay! twins! twice the puke!), I would face a mighty test.
When they were about 1 year old, they had a short stint of stomach upset that happened to coincide with me already experiencing the same illness. So I was already praying to the porcelain goddess. So not really a test.
Last night, however, my intestinal fortitude was put to the challenge.
I was up past my bedtime already, having gotten busy with a freelance project. And as one of our kennel technicians at work likes to point out, I’m old. (See, Delanie? I’m admitting it.) So when I heard what sounded like puking on the baby monitor, I was already exhausted and ready to head to bed.
So I went in to check on my little turkeys. And there was poor Lucas. Sitting up in bed and everything was covered in dinner. I managed to luck out and the only place it didn’t seem to have invaded was his hair. But it covered his bed, soaked through is pillow, stuffed animals, made it down onto the floor.
Everywhere. Including, now, in my hands and under my foot as a I reached to pluck him up from this putrid nightmare.
I got him in the bathtub and settled. The real challenge came when I had to strip his bed. The horror that awaited me later in the laundry room is what almost did me in. But somehow, my gag reflex held and my stomach contents remained firmly in place.
Even though the first laundering was insufficient. And I had to go through and scrub several things by hand to get all the, uh … chunks out.
I finally manage to drag my exhausted behind to bed around 1 a.m. For reference, I usually go to bed around 9 p.m. (Again, old lady, I know.) I got just enough sleep to get up, make myself a cup of coffee, recount the horrors of the night to Dan as he walked in the door from work around 6:45 a.m. and then go upstairs and find Henry covered in the same mess.
But again, my stomach contents remained at bay. Thank God for small miracles.