Why is it, when young children get sick, they have a propensity to vomit on white carpeting? Why is it also that the family dog is always there, ready to clean it up, only to vomit next?
Things were looking to be a great weekend. Fantastic weather, Ashton’s first confession, Jack had a cub scout day somewhere (he left @8 a.m.), Mignonne has Daisy’s tomorrow and we had a pig roast and Mardi Gras dinner club to attend this afternoon. Now, I’m still in my pajamas about to make Shari’s Chicken Soup…
This morning’s big topic of discussion in my house was what color Gatoraide to purchase in order to ensure that when Ashton puked again, on the carpet, wouldn’t leave a stain that wouldn’t come out. Why is it that these electrolyte beverage company dudes (obviously not dealing with sick children) put DYE in their drinks that will leave stains on clothing that won’t come out? I mean, just make the Glass Red, Green, Blue, and have the drink be clear? What’s so wrong with that? Is that too difficult? Sprite does it! Hey Mr. Gatoraide, are you out there? Think about it. Your customers hate dye! What’s in the dye anyway? Something that we need to ingest? No. Put it’s pissing me off, and making my job as mother of the year harder.
Yesterday started this obviously popular stomach virus that we get to enjoy over the weekend. I was up in my office, and Jack started yelling, “S.O.S. S.O.S. STAT! 911! Emergency, Emergency!” I come bumbling down the slippery wood stairs and see #2 holding onto the couch and love seat tossing his chunky peanut butter sandwich all over the white carpeting. (I freaking hate the white carpeting). I’m screaming, “MOVE! Get on the Marble Floor! NOT ON THE CARPETING!!!!” He just looked up like a guilty dog and tossed some more chunks on the carpet.
I exited the house and got Jack off to tennis. John did the clean up. I don’t do vomit. Thank God he was home. I’d be dead and in hell.
Last night I attempted to go to Bunco with the neighborhood ladies. There I was, with lipstick, makeup, and had even blown my hair dry straight. Chugged three go-cups of Bitch Wine, and drank a Miller Lite which wasn’t very cold quite fast in order to get survive the room full of prepped wives that I don’t know and see every day. I was miserable. I started to have a hacking cough, and used it as the excuse to go home before the party really got started. I probably should have stayed, but just wanted to be home on the couch, in my Cheetah Snuggie, sitting on the couch with John and the three kids.
John was almost disappointed when I showed up, but I really didn’t care. Kids had Hershey’s bars (not smart, John) all over their faces and Ashton had just had some ORANGE JUICE. Are you kidding? Not smart, but I wasn’t in charge. I took off my shoes, stepped on the wet white carpeting that had a shade of brown rubbed in, and assumed my position on the couch wrapped in my Cheetah Snuggie.
We sat and watched the downhill skiing for the Winter Olympics, got the kids to bed, and then went to bed ourselves. I slept solidly for about an hour until Mignonne joined us, and then John got up when he heard Ashton puking again, this time in his room, across the carpeting and then all over the bathroom. Puke was dark brown, the color of Hershey’s chocolate with a slight acidic orangy aroma.
Poor Ashton, was supposed to have his first confession today, and I was actually going to get to go, to actually clear my conscience beyond this blog. But, he vomits, and yet again, I’m delayed with getting through the pearly gates. So, if I die this week, chances are, I’ll be living everlasting life in Purgatory. Isn’t that what Atlanta is? I’m not supposed to be here. This was an odd destination. Why are we here?
I don’t do vomit, unless John wants to see my own on the carpeting. Even the thought of vomit causes me to gag. Smelly poop does that too. I’m so good at other parenting things, but vomit isn’t one of them.
So off I go to make the Chicken soup…and thankful that a girlfriend once shared her recipe.