chou chope

woes of the weary one

Content Advisory: Pregnant mothers and those of weak constitutions should skip this post. Detailed Mommy trauma within. You have been warned.

Mommyhood is made of this, sleeplessness and stickiness. I believe I am entering the euphoria stage at this point.

Went to bed at ten or so with Fox news yammering on the tv set. Around midnight, a nightmarish site. My youngest son appeared bedside urping and saying, "Mommy, don't ya know? I'm wealy sick."

When I open my eyes, I'm in shock. My son is covered like Carrie in puke. All over his hair, shirt, in his eyebrows, in his ears, like he had been rolling in it. So much puke. And the urping. Holy Moley, the urping. The sound was horrendous, I almost urped in melodic agreement. Then the realization hit. Guess where he had been sleeping? OMG, shoot me.

But we mommy on. It's all we can do. It's our number one job, our innermost drive and be it two, or three, or four in the morning, it matters not. We know their little tummies are churning and their fevers are raging, and the only thing we know will work is love, comfort, and hopefully luck with a luke warm sprite.

So, to the tub with a puke slathered son. And while the water was rising, I stripped the bed and threw away a couple of pillows. I told the boy I would fix up the guest bed all cozy for him when he said the most disturbing thing.

"I fink I frew up in der too. I also frew up standing up some"

What? Ok, no problem. I continue sponge bathing the boy. My mind is running wild with what horrors lie ahead. Without subjecting you to the details, it was pretty bad, and fairly accurately described.

Still my calm amazed me. Even when the four o'clock hour came and I finally snuggled up next to my stink breath son with a freshly lined trashcan pulled up bedside for convenient mid-sleep urping. That, my friends, was a stroke of genius, for about every hour the boy would stir and gag. Like a circus ride, I would eject him from my bed, hanging him over the can. I'm sure with a fever it was a horrifying ride, but I managed to make it til morning without another carpet clean up.

At 7:30, my efforts turned towards True. He had decided that my night of horror guaranteed some sort of family day off. Lego Day!! Not. Somehow, without beating him, I was able to persuade him to dress and get in the car.

Didn't have the same success with my sick son. He crawled into the car wearing nothing but his jammie top, underwear, and a big fleecy blanket. You would think I would have been cognisant of the impending danger, but no.

Halfway to True's school, Alleycat began the noises. I pulled over at a low water crossing and Alex jumped out in his underwear. It must have been 50 degrees out, chilly in just your britches. And, oh, what a tasteless snapshot of mother and son. Me, braless, holding Alex almost upside down in his underwear, urping madly by the big oak tree. Cars winding by in full view. See ya at school, sexy!

It's definitely Monday. It's Monday with no sleep since Sunday over here. It's a sleepless Monday with the faint aroma of puke offending each and all of your senses. I hope you all are faring much better than I.

Please, wash your hands. And as you toil away at your Monday fare, no matter how down-trodden you may feel, remember this: the job that never sleeps and never pays, is out there blowing chunks at the low water crossing. On that you can believe.

Posted by shoe at February 5, 2007 11:59 AM | TrackBack