Tag Archives: barf

Sick

7 Mar

One of my dearest friends, Msthrowspotsalot, has been dealing with sick kids for weeks now.  All of us mamas can sigh with true empathy.  A sick kid at any age creates chaos and worry even in the most stalwart of households.  Poor Msthrowspotsalot tended to a teen with the flu for the week of finals (great for freshman grades), then a week of a healthy household, then same teen had the flu last week with a fever and Tamaflu when Msthrowspotsalot was supposed to be in the Mexican Riviera with MrCalgary.  MrCalgary went, Msthrowspotsalot was stuck in her house tending to her sickie instead of lying on the beach in the tropics.  We have all been there, housebound, worried, trying to keep our patience and empathy even when our sick child is whiny and miserable…add to that the fact that her husband was relaxing without her…ugh.

Earlier this week, Msthrowspotsalot texted me her freshman was finally going back to school.  Horray!  But, the time for celebration came to a screeching hault after school yesterday when she texted me her son now had the stomach flu.  Holy cow.   We all agree a barfing child ranks up there with having your toenails pulled out or having an piece of food caught in your gum.  I am particularly barfaphobic.  So, my first question to a friend whose child is puking is:  “Did he make it to the toilet?”  This simple act transforms the stomach flu into a more manageable ordeal for the mother and the child.  Not performing this act requires great feats and concentration.  “How the heck am I going to get this pile of puke off the comforter?”  or “How do you pull a t-shirt covered in barf over a child’s head?”  These are questions that should be answered in parenting books.  Prepare us for the nitty gritty.  That time-out nonsense was not helpful anyway. Give us the hardcore, meaty stuff we can actually use.

Msthrowspotsalot responded, “No, of course not.”  Ewww.  She had already thrown away a rug and some towels.  This is a big child we are talking about which means big barf.  And, don’t you think after about age seven or eight they can make it to the toilet already?  Geez.  Last year on my birthday, Princelightningbolt was sick in his room.  In my sweet, motherly way, I was yelling at him to get up and get to the bathroom.  Literally hollering.  So sympathetic.  Once in the bathroom, he stood above the toilet.  You understand splatter, right?  Standing over the toilet is not helpful when you are over six feet tall.  So, I dug deep for my maternal sweetness and shouted, “On your knees.  On your knees, right now!”  Mother turned drill sargeant.

In an attempt to commiserate with Msthrowspotsalot, I told her this story and she said her son had been doing the same standing over the toilet action.  Duh!  She started  screaming my same command.  I feel so vindicated now. Maybe our boys can split the cost and share the same therapist when they are grown.

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Das Boot and Barf

11 Feb

I have found another benefit of having Das Boot.  Sirbarksalot was barfing last night.  Twice.  Sooo gross.  If you have experienced a large dog barfing in the middle of the night, you know this includes disgusting noises, shouts, a leap from the bed, lights flicked on, slider to outside open, dog bed changed, barf cleaned up (gross, gross, gross).  So, when this all transpired last night, I was exempt from any jumping, leaps from the bed, opening the slider, changing dog bed and cleaning up barf.  Remember, I am a Peg Leg.

When all the chaos started, Sirskatesalot took the lead and I rolled over to face the opposite direction with Das Boot.  Das boot and I got cozy and settled while Sirbarksalot heaved, Sirskatesalot leapt from the bed, ripped the crate door open and threw Sirbarksalot outside.  I offered a  feeble, “Can I help you?”  But Sirskatesalot knows I am a Peg Leg and cut me some slack.  He took the bed outside, cleaned the crate, re-bedded the crate and put the pup back to bed.  I cuddled with my pillows.   Ah, so nice to be a Peg Leg at times like this. People expect so little of me.

And then, another disgusting round of barf noises from the crate.  “Sirskatesalot, Sirskatesalooooottttt! ” I scream while he is out in the kitchen cleaning up.  Damn.  Am I really going to have to get Das Boot and I out of bed?  Aha, I spot my phone on the nightstand.  I text, “Bring paper towels!”  I hear Sirskatesalot immediately running down the hall.  Ah, now I can go back to sleep.  He bursts through the bedroom door,”Is he throwing up again?”  I just roll over and groan.  I’m tired.  Das Boot has had to roll over, pull on the covers and resettle already three or four times.

But I am grateful to Das Boot that Sirskatesalot never even asked me to get out of bed.  I am going to keep the hated Das Boot by my bed at all times so that when a kid or dog is barfing at night, I can velcro it on and skip all barf clean up duties.  Das Boot sucks, but barf clean up is so much worse.

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