I thought we were past this phase with Ruby Jane.... You see, at some point in a child's life they grow beyond the phase of letting their puke fly out willy-nilly regardless of their current location and position, to the wonderful new phase of projecting their vomit into an appropriate receptacle-- say, the toilet or some such container. And I thought that we had already moved to the latter phase with Ruby Jane, but was actually proved wrong in this regard just last night.
Ruby walked into our bedroom at nearly midnight last night, and before she even uttered a word the smell of wretch hit me like a freight train. "I threw-up," she whimpered. Hubby, cognitive abilities not quite functioning at full-speed yet, replied, "what'd you do that for?" Hmmmm, I knew then that I needed to attempt to address this situation solo. But, as many of you already know-- regurgitated food and I do not get along so well. But I steeled myself as best I could and followed Ruby Jane downstairs to her room. After all, how bad could it be?
What I found there was akin to a barf-a-phobic's worst nightmare. Shall I describe it to you? First of all, it was bright pink. Barbie pink, in fact. And copious. With chunks and lumps and mystery pieces in it. It spread from her pillow, onto the bed itself and down the side (not missing any piece of bedding mind you, from her comforter to her dust ruffle) and finally pooling on the floor in a great big circle. I came, I saw, I ran away gagging. I needed back-up.
I called hubby down and he, like a war-hardened trooper, came immediately. He took one look at the puke and one look at me dry-heaving into my elbow and said, "ugh, please get out of here before you make me start gagging too." With pleasure! But I knew it would be frowned upon if I simply skipped back to bed scott-free (although the thought did cross my mind and was given serious consideration) so I took Ruby into the bathroom to see what kind of assistance I could be there. And, yikes.... She looked like a character in a horror movie. Pink vomit was matted in her hair, swiped across her sweet face, and spread down the front of her jammies Interview with a Vampire style. "This is disgusting," she said, a little too perkily for my liking. "You need to shower," was all I could say through clenched teeth, attempting not to breathe at all. She stripped down (a nasty job indeed) and commenced cleaning off in the shower-- giving me much unwanted commentary all the while. "Wow-- it's up my nose!" and such. In fact, she was quite chipper about the whole thing.
Meanwhile, hubby was stripping her bed, scrubbing the mattress and floor, and throwing soiled linens into the washing machine. My hero! How does he do it?? He's tried to teach me his method before by saying, "don't breathe through your nose, breathe through your mouth." But you know what? That is quite possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever tried. Suddenly you're not just smelling puke, you're tasting it. Forget it, hubby. But, hey, if it works for him....
After we got Ruby Jane cleaned up, dried off and in fresh pajamas, I took her upstairs to sleep on the couch in our bedroom. I lined it with a towel, placed a bucket strategically by her head and sent her off to dreamland. I then looked longingly at my own bed, but instead of climbing in I returned to Ruby's room, nose firmly pinched between my fingers, and asked hubby if there was anything else I could do for him. He said no, and mercifully sent me away. Again, my hero....
Ya know, morning came much too soon today. And upon waking, Ruby recalled the events of last night almost fondly-- finding the whole ordeal oddly novel and humorous. (Okay, okay-- she has her mother's sense of humor.) But me? Well, it would be far more amusing if I did not have a mountain of vomit-soaked bedding and clothing awaiting me in the laundry room. But, alas.... A mother's gotta do what a mother's gotta do.
