Things have been busy this week. Borderline chaotic, really....but today...today was a day. A start early, run like crazy, do everything day. It involved multiple tasks, people, locations, and last minute changes. But I won't give you the details. They're tedious. I'll just tell you how it all culminated tonight.
We had a pair of missionaries over for dinner, one of whom we'd never met. I made a big Italian feast, and happily, everything looked wonderful. We had just started eating when Asher left his little table, tugged on my shirt, asked to be held, and then threw up everywhere.
In .003 seconds, I felt shock, pity, disgust and panic. Poor sick baby...I thought he'd been acting a bit off. Poor dinner guests...trying to eat their food while vomit splatters their shoes.
I jumped up, screamed, "Look away!" and scrambled for the Lysol. Andrew had grabbed a very soiled Asher and was charging up the stairs towards the tub when the poor toddler threw up again - an astonishing amount - all over our backless stairs. Meaning...vomit fell down to the flight directly underneath. One puke, two puddles.
Meanwhile, Asher is crying, "Mommy, mommy!" which makes me feel a swell of maternal pride as I realize we all want our mothers when we're sick, and I, in fact, am this little boy's ultimate source of comfort. I take a millisecond to bask in that, then demand Andrew switch jobs with me, all the while apologizing to the stunned Elders. This took place in 24 seconds.
I soothed Asher and started his bath while Andrew cleaned up all three messes. As he was working on the basement stairs I heard an "...oh no..." and asked if he'd stepped in it. "Worse.", came the response. Confused, I investigated to find some of the upstairs mess had dripped down on his head.
That's when I lost it. I couldn't stop laughing even though the house wreaked, our boy was sick, and I was covered in the former contents of his stomach. Our guests remained pleasant as they ate and looked on, amused at the mayhem.
Just another day in the life.
Then it all slowed down...Asher got a warm bath and fresh pajamas, we finished dinner (the men with the stronger stomachs, that is), and enjoyed a nice little message. The missionaries left, we cleaned things up and put Asher to bed. I practically raced to the shower.
Clad in my cozy fleece onesie, I left the bathroom 20 minutes later to discover noises from Asher's room. He was still up and talking. Normally I'd just let him go down on his own, but thought maybe he was feeling funny and could use some extra help tonight.
I scooped him up, held him like the little baby he no longer is, and began rocking him back and forth in the glider. He stared up at me as I sang him lullaby after lullaby. I soaked up every beautiful sweet second of holding him close as his eyes grew heavy and finally closed. Will this be the last time? I kept wondering. Maybe so. He'll grow, but I'll remember him this way.
Reluctant to end a precious moment, but eager to let the child sleep, I lifted his lifeless form to my shoulder to carry him to bed.
And then, a gurgling sound shattered my serenity. In a cruel flash, my son blanketed me with chunks of proof that I am, truly, a mother. We were both covered. The carpet, the rug, the glider, were covered. I called for help, the lights shot on, and a sick and sleepy Asher began to cry.
Vomit is such a killjoy.
But you know what? It's not all bad. I think our boy felt a lot better after round three, and he's now sleeping peacefully. Hopefully it's out of his system. Two showers have made me feel extra fresh. My house is cleaner than ever and I love the hum of the washing machine, doing my dirty work for me. All of tomorrow's plans have been cancelled, and the prospect of a free day or two at home together sounds positively appealing. Maybe vomit is just what the doctor ordered.
;)
