Wow. A full week at daycare and we already got smacked by the kiddie flu. I knew it would happen, but this soon?
Saturday night came around and Millie was in bed. My husband and I were trying to be good doobies and I was doing work and he was job searching online. She started crying around 8:30, which is somewhat unusual for her. Iain went in to investigate, picked her up and brought her into the living room where she projectile vomited all over him and the carpet. The poor thing. I ran to her, of course, and grabbed her, because of course you need your mommy at times like this (and I wonder why she is having a tough time in daycare?). At which point she threw up all over me and herself. I'm such an amateur. We brought her into the bathtub and got us both cleaned up and in clean clothes, at which point she threw up again. And again. At one point, I wandered out to check on my husband, who was on his hands and knees cleaning the carpet. God bless him. Granted, he was using my best mixing bowl as a bucket to clean it. I should (and did) shut my big fat piehole and say thank you. There is a tradition with some North American Native peoples that dictates the burning and abandonment of a dwelling where something tragic has occurred. I was all for lighting the apartment ablaze and leaving rather than cleaning up the vomit. Seriously.
This is the point where I should explain what a big, gigantic freak I am when it comes to throwing up. I hate it. Now, I know, most people don't LIKE it, but I HATE it. I hate it and will do ANYTHING to avoid it. Anything. If I could strike a deal with God which allowed me to never throw up again, but in exchange, I had to spend two hours a day bench-pressing my husband, I'd do it. Or scheduling a weekly root canal. You name it, I'd do it. My mother was a freak about it, and so am I. I think it stems somewhat from the time I ate Comet Cleaner and was fed Syrup of Ipecac and the vomiting ensued. Don't ask me what possessed me to eat it to begin with. I was three and a half AND I could read AND I knew what that nasty Mr. Yuck symbol meant. Maybe it looked minty and tasty. Who the heck knows.
Anywho, one of my greatest fear with children is the vomit.
What do you mean I have to take care of someone else while they are throwing up? Is this in writing somewhere? But, when she needed me, there was no where I would have rather been. My active girl who can never decide if she wants to be held or if she wants to be scaling the dining room chairs. My active girl who jumps up and down in her pack and play to the point it bounces across the floor. My active girl was greenish gray and lifeless. It broke my heart. She mended quickly and rehydrated. She was back to being active girl on Sunday.
Then it hit me on Monday. She was teething and pretty miserable Monday morning before the worst of it hit me, so I decided to keep her home with me. By 1:00 I called my husband and begged him to come home. There's nothing like throwing up with a baby, who you didn't have time to get in the pack and play, crawling up your leg, totally freaked out by the whole scene. I was also afraid I'd pass out and Millie would at last have her chance to take over the house. My husband would come home at 5:00 to her standing at the door, announcing her new-found (new-found? who the hell am I kidding?) dominance with her favorite wooden spoon in hand, naked except for her diaper. Like something out of Lord of the Flies.
I am trying to "rest" but the house looked like a bomb hit it by last night. I used to know how to relax. There is a crazy thunderstorm coming our way. Maybe I'll log off the computer, shut things down and listen to the rain. Or maybe I'll do the dishes.
Labels: evil daycare, trauma, vomit
