Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Now, The Only Thing That Reminds Me of Being Young, Drunk, and Childless


Lysol and vomit
.

The lovely pairing of aromas wafted through my bedroom as I tried to sleep last night. Once, prior to mommyhood, this would have been reminiscent of a wild night of bar hopping, disgusting public restrooms, and too many drinks with friends . . . or, more often, friends who had too many drinks.

Now, it only reminds me of the little three-year-old person lying next to me in bed, who barfed up a dinner of spaghetti, sourdough bread, zucchini, and strawberry ice cream after having gagged on his nemesis, the toothbrush.

I swear, if there were an Olympics of Vomit, my son would excel in multiple events. He would excel at the vomit equivalent of the long jump, pole vault, and shot put. His regurgitation acrobatics are truly gold medal worthy. Once I swear he expelled twice his body weight in vomit and completely covered his bedroom, a hallway, and the bathroom as I desperately tried to get him to the toilet.

No one ever said motherhood was glamorous!

I was once what I would call a "sympathetic vomiter": if I heard it, smelled it, or saw it, I was bound to join the barfer in his or her moment of glory.

Finally, after three years of trial by fire, or vomit, rather, I am finally almost immune to its effects. Perhaps now I should abandon my teaching career for a more lucrative career in medicine, one that I always avoided because of my squeamishness over bodily functions--vomiting being at the top of that list. There's always a bright side to everything, no?

After the vomiting attack, he gave me this pathetic look that said, "I told you how much I hate the toothbrush! Now look what you made me do?!" He then told me with confidence that he would never eat again. Why? Because then he would never have to brush his teeth again. It was, in his three-year-old mind, a perfect solution.

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