Awkward Mom vs. Stomach Flu

Oh Readers. Don't eat while you read this. Just don't.

So, Sunday is not a good day anyway. We make it to church, only to hang out in the nursery the whole time, due to some crab-tastic kids. Then, we go to the outdoor "Christmas Market," which would have been nice, except it is pouring rain and about 31 degrees. That icky above freezing place where the rain feels like wet ice daggers. We brave through and buy some gifts that we can't afford, and then we make our way to the relative dry used book store. I am looking for quarter paperbacks, but find $150 first editions instead. After we endure the pointed stares of the proprietor as long as we can, we make our way back outside. The second we are in the doorway, I crouch down to rearrange Super Baby's blanket for the cold wet trip back to the car. I am crouching there in front of her, thinking, "Man, she looks green. Why does she look green?" The importance of this thought has 2 seconds to make it to my feet, alerting them to the urgency of moving back. Right now. Unfortunately, Super Baby only take 1 second to vomit. All over me. And herself. But thankfully not the $150 original Hardy Book hardcovers. This thankfulness is pretty much the only thankfulness that I feel for the entire week. We all got this stomach thing. Every last one of us. All week.

Now, a word or two about vomit. (And no, it wasn't spit-up. You know the difference, and if you don't, I wish for you to never have to find out.) All children vomit differently. All adults vomit like they are at the Kappa Sigma house after losing several games of beer pong and their shoes on the night that Steven Pulaski broke up with them for Shelly Taylor. Basically; dramatically, with sobbing and repeated declarations that one wants to die. No, children have not yet learned this and they vomit in their own ways.

Super Baby vomits silently. This is way worse then loud vomiting, where you at least have some warning of the impeding doom. (Still not eating, right, Readers?) Way worse; Super Baby vomits and this ooze just starts pouring out of her mouth. Kinda like the elevator of blood from The Shining; all slow motion and horrifying, yet strangely fascinating. I can't look away. Heck, I can't even move, which is the only reason it hits me. This vomit has no reach, it just trails down her chin and chest until she resembles a baby Cthulhu. She doesn't even cry. Just looks up at me with those huge eyes, brimming with pain and confusion, and I don't have any choice but to pick her up and cuddle her. All of her, even her ZZ-top tentacles of sour milk and spent sausage. I am covered in it anyway, which made it slightly less disgusting. Slightly.

Super Preschool is gonna win an Oscar for his vomiting. He rears back and gives it his all; all over the place. It is exactly like the split-pea soup scene in The Exorcist, and I always give him a minute to spin his head around afterward. He hasn't done it yet, unless he does it so fast that I can't see it being done. There is heaving, reeling, and lots and lots of projection. I will have to wash every item in the room he is in, even the stuff behind him, which is giving credence to my head-spinning theory. He isn't particularly loud, but it is full bodied and explosive. Literally.

Super Toddler is a lesson is stoicism. Not only is he the Super that has vomited the least in his tenure as a Super, but he is the best at it. He is the only one to feel it coming in enough time to make it to the bathroom, aim into the toilet or sink, and get the job done quickly and efficiently. He endures some brief cuddling, and then he saunters away in the direction of the kitchen, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the toy gun that he never let go of, mumbling about needing some cheese. He will probably be John Blutarsky someday; which is a horror movie of a different ilk and thus in keeping with my blog post theme.

So, this has been my week. Now, if you will excuse me, I am currently washing all the sheets in the house, I need to light a few more scented candles, and I have to go to the bathroom and shout about Shelly Taylor. Catch ya'll later. Or whenever we are no longer able to infect you with the plague. Kisses!

Air kisses. Just air kisses, Readers. And you may now resume eating.

Cutest Cthulhu I have ever seen.