I woke up this morning with an ice pic stabbing my cranium above my left eye. I rolled over confused and saw Anya all snuggled up in her footies on daddy's pillow. She had thrown up at bed time and no matter how much resolve, odor eating shampoo formula, fabreeze and open windows the smell requires atomic cleansing to remove...so she slept with me in the big bed and daddy found himself on the couch. The yogurt she found on the table after her nap yesterday had been sitting out for hours, forgotten, we had figured out this morning. I went to put her into her crib for bed after a verse of Twinkle Twinkle, she looked at me blankly and swallowed hard a few times....blllllaaaauuuwwwk....and for me, since puke is something I've never been able to tolerate, and don't let them fool you that it's different with your own...bullshit...this was the worst ending to a bad day!
We stripped down as she shook and shivered, whimpering while I controlled my own impulse to add to the slop running down the crib bars and drip drip dropping onto the rug. It was everywhere...across the room, on the bedspread, on me, oozing off her. I grabbed old receiving blankets and tried to collect the chunks and give a compulsory wipe down before we cleaned ourselves in the tub. I grabbed my phone unconsciously and called Rich while the tub filled with water and bubbles.
"How much longer do you think you'll be?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Puke-tastic. But it wasn't on purpose. Seems like something she ate."
Overly loud disgruntled (and disgusted) sigh, "I'll get home when I can, but you'll have to figure it out."
We hung up and I sunk deep into the bubbles and cursed to myself. Anya relaxed, stopped shaking and started trying to pop the bubbles. The best part of a puke-tastic night is sliding into the warm, bubbly bath tub. I haven't taken a bath in about 20 years (I do shower daily, mind you, so no snarky euwws), so this bit of heaven for me is pure entertainment and happiness for Anya. She takes the wash cloth and I ask her to wash each part of herself and am amazed how much she understands. Too bad our tub is a fake, miniature, fiberglass, excuse-for bathing and I can barely get myself back to standing for the wash and rinse off.
I dry her off in a fluffy purple towel and dress her in a new pair of fleece footies and get her snuggled on her rocking chair with some Wonder Pets. I grab some paper towels, greenworks, oxi-clean resolve, the shampooer with industrial strength odor removing formula and struggle up the steps in dread. I'm already psyching myself out. Come on. You're a grown up. You've done it before. Just get it over with. I start with the dripping bars and crib contents. Slowly I pluck each corner of the sheet and mattress pad from its corner, realizing that the ooze will also be behind the bars and essentially get on the mattress, albeit covered in plastic. I step on something cold and fight the image of vomit on my clean toes. I wrap everything up in the sheet and put them in a plastic bag, then attempt to wipe down the bars and O God I don't think I can do this and saturated them with Greenworks and used too many paper towels, but felt fairly successful in finding all the crevices. Next I got on my knees with a soaked wash cloth and aimed at getting all the milk fats up so that the shampooer could actually clean the carpet. I kept turning my head to the side to get a fresh breath of air from the open window, then turning back to the carpet and scrubbing the next spot with a glance. I dowsed the carpet with Oxi Resolve and took all the mess to the washing machine downstairs.
On my way back up, I stopped and hugged Anya to make sure she was okay left alone downstairs so I could clean up. She was so tired and was asking for more milk, but O no I wasn't making that mistake tonight. I let her drink some water and told her I'd be back in a few minutes. Thumb in mouth and fingers twirling her hair she nodded yes. Back in the bog of stench I plugged in the shampooer and began to flood the carpet with super-powered cleaner. I felt like I had beaten the monster and I did so by myself - instead of George the dragonslayer I was mom the Puke-slayer. But I know he will return again and again to test my strength, making me weary and drained.
Anya fell asleep on my shoulder as we made our way upstairs. I texted Rich to change over the washer to the dryer when he got home and that I think I did well cleaning up - this morning proved otherwise as the stench still eminates from beneath the closed door even with the window cracked open. Anya curled up fetal on daddy's side of the bed and I just closed my eyes and drifted off into Neverland.
This morning I know the Puke-monster wounded me. I managed to get myself up, dressed and off to work, but very late and in a state of torpidity. For a moment I considered working from home, but instanly thought better. There is no way anyone would let me get away with working from home on a Friday with the reason of: migraine - perception = taking advantage of the cat being away.
I wanted to write something extrodinary today, but I want to do that everyday. Who the hell am I to consider myself more profound or exceptional compared to the mass of bloggers around the world. In reality the wound to my left brain will take some healing time, and until then I am without elite storytelling skills. Enjoy my adventures in puke-tasticness.
Showing posts with label vomit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vomit. Show all posts
04 March 2011
03 February 2011
The Bog of Eternal Stench
So....fucking...tired...snore. What the hell? In an attempt to placate my husband I once again ventured to get Anya to sleep in her crib. After a month of puking and screaming at the idea that we expected her to slumber in her own bed and, therefore, sleeping with mommy (or daddy some nights), we had to get her back into her crib. We took Anya upstairs together and with hugs and kisses Rich left Anya and I to our goondnight routine. Anya and I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and I Love You and and one round of Wheels on the Bus. Anya laid back to snuggle and finish her milk and I returned the cuddles. When the yawning, rubbing of the eyes, and nesting into the crook of my arm started I knew it was time.
I scooped up all 24 point whatever pounds of toddler and not as gently as I would've liked placed her into her crib - yes I put the side back up earlier in the day. "I love you sweetpea," and I swept toward the door. "Mooooommy, mom mommy mommy mom no mommy mommy pleash pleash mommy...." And here we go. I stood by her crib and let her hug me while I rubbed her back. "You are a big girl and need to sleep in your bed." "NOOOOO mommy pleesh," she continued to wail. Slowly over the next hour I step by step retreated...I refused to pick her up...she's not going to get me this time. I went from hugs over the rail to aloof and not touching her slowly, but giving her kisses on her head every now and then for some comfort. Eventually the tears stopped and she just clung to whatever part of me she could reach over the rail. She sucked her thumb and I thought started drifting off on her feet. She even laid down a few times and I thought, "WIN!" But as soon as her head hit the pillow the mommy pleeshes started all over again.
I was exhausted and heart broken that I was putting her though this, but knew I needed to be the mommy and make some of the rules. I kissed her and hugged her and finally said, "Good night, Anya." As I started for the door...I knew the pitch...that wail...the alarm...that tone...I picked her up quickly and said, "Anya don't you dare....." HHhthwwwaaaaaa muuuuppptt blooooosh all over me, her and the bedroom. If I hadn't been witness to this vomit factor for over a month now only at into-your-own-bed time I would think maybe she's sick, her tummy hurts, or awww poor baby, but, no, that is not the case. My mother snickers at my disgust saying, "You did that to me until I gave you a spoon and said eat it." Whether or not my mother was truely that sinister I don't remember, but I'd try it if I thought it would work too.
Rich got the shampooer and spray and plastic bags and paper towels and helped me strip Anya and myself of milk flavored wretch. I stiffled back my dry heaves, but only due to the ferocity of my anger. I felt like a failure. How could this be happening? Why can't I a) get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, and b) be a mom and deal with the puke myself. I felt defeated and deflated and incapable and beaten; all after an evening long feud with my husband to boot. A wave of anxiety and sadness and betrayal and fear clung to my soul as Anya and I got into the tub to clean up. She wouldn't let me put her down. She screamed and shook and pleaded for me to hold her. I tried reasoning with this scared little peanut, "I can't wash us if I hold you." Rich yelled at me for scaring her, for being less than a caring mommy, for being mad and upset that I was tired, in pain, vomited on, and emotionally spent before bedtime even began. There I was holding a sniffling toddler, wreaking of puke, and the water ran cooler and cooler until...FUCK!
For a change Rich had a hot relaxing shower before his own bedtime, and as irnony has it, we needed that hot water. I had to turn the water off, still holding Anya, I stepped out of the tub, under the heat fan and wrapped a few towels around Anya to keep her warm. She had stopped sobbing and shaking but clung to me as if it were the end of the world. We stood there dripping, in the center of the bathroom and the smell of vomit baking under the heat fan. I stared off into nothingness: broken and a shamed of my lack of motherness at the moment. I remember rocking for a bit and that my feet started hurting and my back was breaking. I tried to pry Anya off of me and lean her on the sink. Success but not without rebellion from the stinking bog machine. Eventually, 30 or 45 minutes later Rich boiled some water and directed my frozen wet stink into the tub with Anya. I washed her first and handed her out of the tub while I bathed like they did the year my house was built (for those not in the know the 1800s). At least I couldn't smell the stench any more.
Rich ran another round of cleaning product on Anya's room as I sat in a towel in the dining room in silence while Anya banged a concerto on the piano and giggled at herself. After all efforts to remove said vomit from Anya's room created a smog of chemicals Rich took Anya up to our bed to fall asleep and I dried my mop of maybe cleaned hair. My arrival to my room produced a sound asleep toddler, a drained spouse and anxiety. Rich went downstairs to clean himself up and watch some TV to cleans himself of the grossness and frustration. I crawled into bed bone chilled. Hour after I hour I stared at the clock, my feet felt dead of blood. I started getting reflux and couldn't get the rot of bile from my throat. 12, 1, 2, 3 I turned up the heat 2 degrees, put on 2 pairs of socks, and downed a gallon of milk and finally fell to sleep...all the while Anya off in dreamland without a stir.
I scooped up all 24 point whatever pounds of toddler and not as gently as I would've liked placed her into her crib - yes I put the side back up earlier in the day. "I love you sweetpea," and I swept toward the door. "Mooooommy, mom mommy mommy mom no mommy mommy pleash pleash mommy...." And here we go. I stood by her crib and let her hug me while I rubbed her back. "You are a big girl and need to sleep in your bed." "NOOOOO mommy pleesh," she continued to wail. Slowly over the next hour I step by step retreated...I refused to pick her up...she's not going to get me this time. I went from hugs over the rail to aloof and not touching her slowly, but giving her kisses on her head every now and then for some comfort. Eventually the tears stopped and she just clung to whatever part of me she could reach over the rail. She sucked her thumb and I thought started drifting off on her feet. She even laid down a few times and I thought, "WIN!" But as soon as her head hit the pillow the mommy pleeshes started all over again.
I was exhausted and heart broken that I was putting her though this, but knew I needed to be the mommy and make some of the rules. I kissed her and hugged her and finally said, "Good night, Anya." As I started for the door...I knew the pitch...that wail...the alarm...that tone...I picked her up quickly and said, "Anya don't you dare....." HHhthwwwaaaaaa muuuuppptt blooooosh all over me, her and the bedroom. If I hadn't been witness to this vomit factor for over a month now only at into-your-own-bed time I would think maybe she's sick, her tummy hurts, or awww poor baby, but, no, that is not the case. My mother snickers at my disgust saying, "You did that to me until I gave you a spoon and said eat it." Whether or not my mother was truely that sinister I don't remember, but I'd try it if I thought it would work too.
Rich got the shampooer and spray and plastic bags and paper towels and helped me strip Anya and myself of milk flavored wretch. I stiffled back my dry heaves, but only due to the ferocity of my anger. I felt like a failure. How could this be happening? Why can't I a) get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, and b) be a mom and deal with the puke myself. I felt defeated and deflated and incapable and beaten; all after an evening long feud with my husband to boot. A wave of anxiety and sadness and betrayal and fear clung to my soul as Anya and I got into the tub to clean up. She wouldn't let me put her down. She screamed and shook and pleaded for me to hold her. I tried reasoning with this scared little peanut, "I can't wash us if I hold you." Rich yelled at me for scaring her, for being less than a caring mommy, for being mad and upset that I was tired, in pain, vomited on, and emotionally spent before bedtime even began. There I was holding a sniffling toddler, wreaking of puke, and the water ran cooler and cooler until...FUCK!
For a change Rich had a hot relaxing shower before his own bedtime, and as irnony has it, we needed that hot water. I had to turn the water off, still holding Anya, I stepped out of the tub, under the heat fan and wrapped a few towels around Anya to keep her warm. She had stopped sobbing and shaking but clung to me as if it were the end of the world. We stood there dripping, in the center of the bathroom and the smell of vomit baking under the heat fan. I stared off into nothingness: broken and a shamed of my lack of motherness at the moment. I remember rocking for a bit and that my feet started hurting and my back was breaking. I tried to pry Anya off of me and lean her on the sink. Success but not without rebellion from the stinking bog machine. Eventually, 30 or 45 minutes later Rich boiled some water and directed my frozen wet stink into the tub with Anya. I washed her first and handed her out of the tub while I bathed like they did the year my house was built (for those not in the know the 1800s). At least I couldn't smell the stench any more.
Rich ran another round of cleaning product on Anya's room as I sat in a towel in the dining room in silence while Anya banged a concerto on the piano and giggled at herself. After all efforts to remove said vomit from Anya's room created a smog of chemicals Rich took Anya up to our bed to fall asleep and I dried my mop of maybe cleaned hair. My arrival to my room produced a sound asleep toddler, a drained spouse and anxiety. Rich went downstairs to clean himself up and watch some TV to cleans himself of the grossness and frustration. I crawled into bed bone chilled. Hour after I hour I stared at the clock, my feet felt dead of blood. I started getting reflux and couldn't get the rot of bile from my throat. 12, 1, 2, 3 I turned up the heat 2 degrees, put on 2 pairs of socks, and downed a gallon of milk and finally fell to sleep...all the while Anya off in dreamland without a stir.
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