I went through a rough patch when I was pregnant with Coop where I watched more episodes of the Maury show than any person should ever inflict upon themselves. One thing that frustrated the fucking shit out of me is when people faced with a paternity test would exclaim, “Babies in my family do not have [insert whatever stupid fucking thing here].” If you haven’t seen the show, you might not understand the stupidity of these assertions. People would say that the baby is too fat or too skinny or his head is too round to be their child or relative. One particularly offensive person said that there are no handicapped people in their family, therefore the disabled child could not be their offspring. ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS, RANDOM PERSON ON MY TELEVISION?
With the understanding that I realize the claim I am about to make is complete bullshit, I would like to tell you that my people, we do not throw up. During pregnancy, there were many times that I wished I would just fucking barf and perhaps for a moment not feel like I needed to vomit. I am fairly sure that I have not puked since 2006, and that I blame on Rubio’s. I can remember two occasions that I have witnessed Chicken throw up, and they were of the barf once and feel better variety. Egg will be three years old this month and he has barfed three times, within fives minutes and in my car. I do not count spitting up as vomit.
I have read many blog posts that detailed the horrors of children vomiting. I never understood. Kid pukes, clean it up, do a load of laundry, the end. Right? HAHAHAHAHAHA. Sunday night Adam and I were packing in preparation for our family cruise. I had the notarized permission from H1, official birth certificates for all of us, and I had cleaned the shit out of my house. At midnight Egg woke up crying. Adam lost the highly mature game of “NOT IT!” and he went in to comfort Egg. The next thing I remember is seeing Egg covered in vomit.
My midwife gave me a list of items needed for my homebirth. Having at least ten full-sized towels was one of requirements. Because we were leaving the next morning for our cruise, I had every damn towel clean. I do not like to come home to a dirty house filled with laundry that needs to be washed. In three hours we were down to two clean towels, we had each changed clothes two or more times, and many of Egg’s blankets were coated in barf. It will be a very long time before I eat corn again.
Eventually I set up Egg’s mattress on the floor in the living room and had Adam on the couch right next to him. I love wood floors. Barf away, sweet child! I got to sleep before 4am, and asked Adam to wake me at 8am. We needed to leave and drive to Long Beach by 11am. I was assuming that Egg had food poisoning and would be fine after a night of hearty barfing. Monday morning Egg stopped throwing up around 9am, exchanging the puke fest for a fever. Our cruise was fucked.
Egg is slowly feeling better but not eating much yet. He hasn’t had a fever since last night. It seems like we’ve been at home for weeks now, tending to a miserable toddler and asshole baby. Adam goes back to work tomorrow, Chicken returns to school on Monday after three months on home hospital. We don’t know if we’ll be able to reschedule the cruise, and it is heartbreaking to hear Egg say, “Big boat? We go on big boat?” I’d feel more sorry for myself if I wasn’t worrying about my Twitter and Facebook friend Kate. Please send healing thoughts her way, and donate to the relief fund mentioned in the linked post if you can.