Momming and Midnight Vomit

You know what’s awesome? Your kids. You know what’s not awesome? Vomit. Vomit is not awesome.

I remember finding out I was pregnant. *sighhhh* The daydreams. All the wonder and love and warm fuzzies that went along with those blissful dreams. What I did not imagine, among many, many realities, was the voluminous amount of fluids that these small bodies could produce and expel with g-force.

I had a great Mother’s Day last year. My youngest had been sick with a stomach bug a couple days before so we didn’t do much. No big deal. But the day itself was a real turning point. It’s been hard trying to navigate holidays as a single parent. They just felt “off” for a few years there as we found our new normal. Something wonderful changed that day and it was just a sweet time. I tucked my girls into bed full of contentment and fell asleep in peace. And then….vomit.

At 11:57 p.m., mere minutes before the close of such a blessed day, I went from near-coma to battlefield command in the span of .06 seconds as the first sounds of retching rent the air.  I rushed into the bathroom for the barf bucket (we all have them) and headed straight for my daughter’s top bunk.

I never made it. *cue doomsday music*

As the 10 year old perched herself over the end so as not to soak her sheets with regurgitated dinner, I was free falling into a pool of barf.

Momming is soooo awesome.

You know how sometimes time slows to a crawl and every moment hangs suspended, burned into your memory forever like a botched tattoo on your forehead? This was such a moment.

I remember running, then my feet flying out in front of me and landing squarely on my backside and elbows after feeling and hearing the back of my head slam into the wood floor. (I had no idea you saw actual flashes of light when you ring your bell like that, so that’s something.) As I laid there saying, “Oh God…” over and over, it was a literal prayer because I was pretty sure I broke something, and I was stuck on the floor wishing prematurely for one of those Life Alert gadgets. I managed to feel around to see if my hair was drenched, but I was in the clear – go me! And my daughter…still puking over the side of the bed. Where I was laying. In shock. Under a waterfall of pizza-puke.

Barf is slippery, in case you didn’t know. Just a tip.

After that it was a blur (probably selective amnesia). I managed to peel myself off the floor, get her settled while cradling my elbow, waddle my vomit-marinated body into the shower (just as gross as it sounds, I assure you), then proceed to clean up the 5 foot blast radius of pizza-vomit. Poor Charlotte. She was exhausted, but that rock star managed to keep her bed clear of chunks. One less thing to have to clean up in the middle of the night. Whatever works.

Nothing says “I’ll take a bullet for you” like a hairline fracture in your elbow and being the vomit receptacle.

Momming rocks.