…in the way of sickness and trauma. Blood is easy. Psychological distress I do all right with. Seizures, as I’ve discovered, give me no troubles. Even fecal matter is not terribly disturbing, unless it’s found in my kids’ tubby water (there’s a story about that).
I can NOT do vomit. When my kids throw up, it is all I can do not to spew myself. My wife understands this, and it is most fortunate that she has a stronger stomach for it than I do. At least one of us can take charge when the kids toss their cookies.
My children, unfortunately, are not at an age to understand this and, when they vomit, often do so in my presence.
On the floor.
In bed.
On themselves.
NEVER in the buckets provided to lessen the mess. It makes my whole body weak.
My kids got the flu vaccine yesterday and, apparently, had a reaction to it. They threw up all night last night. It was a rough night for everyone, even for those of us who were not feeling queasy beforehand. My heart goes out to my children. I’m sorry they are not feeling well. This one is ALL on Wifeness to handle.
Call me when they bust their lips.
Friday, January 6, 2006
I can handle a lot…
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2 comments:
Amen, Baby - I'm RIGHT THERE WITH YOU on that one.
Hell, I get woozy when t.v. characters ralph - and I KNOW that's fake!
My husband and I made a deal when we had our girls. I got all the nuclear-waste-dump, trailing-up-their-backs, just-put-em-in-the-tub diapers. He gets them when they puke. And by this I mean that the ONLY acceptable response to a phone call to work saying that someone's tossing is: "I'm getting my keys."
Quick story: A few months ago, ChiliBean came upstairs in the wee small hours of the morning.
"Mommy, my legs are wobbly."
"Do you feel like you're going to blurp?" (our code word for the dreaded bodily function)
"I don't know."
"Okay, well, let's just cuddle in the bathroom, just in case."
(this is ME talking, by the way. DadChili hadn't gotten out of bed, though I know he was awake)
We BARELY make it into the bathroom (which, mind you, is four steps from the bedroom) when ChiliBean starts to wretch. In one fluid motion (no pun intended), I scoop her up, flip the seat and grab her forehead. She does her thing (Poor Baby was convulsing so hard that her little leg shot out behind her).
When she'd finished, I wiped her face, gave her some water to rinse her mouth and sent her in to snuggle in the bed with Daddy.
Then I passed out.
I kid you not - tunnel vision, sweats, spinning room - I managed to sit down before it all went black.
DadChili STILL owes me for that.
I'm a sympathetic vomiter, myself.
I was queasy for two days after their own yakking (isn't it funny that we have 4,215 words and expressions for this act? Second only to those for the act of love, I think).
Bleh.
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