In truly original “The Mom Job” fashion, let me take you all on a journey, and let’s start at 1am CST the early morning of December 9th.
“Mom… I threw up,” and with that, I’m awake and looking bleary-eyed into the face of my obviously unwell eldest son.
I ask if he’s ok, he says no, and we start our trek to the back of the house. I can smell the smelly smell of human mouth discard 15 feet from his door.
“I threw up on in the bed first…” he begins.
First. That’s where he threw up first.
Conner occupies the top bunk of a bunk bed. He’s roughly 3 feet from the ceiling when flat. Apparently, when Conner first woke throwing up, it wasn’t just a little hiccup. It went onto the white popcorn 1970s ceiling in brilliant fashion.
Second, he threw up the length of his bed as he attempted to escape his own hell.
Third is when he blew chunks all over the ladder getting off of said bunk bed.
My hypothesis is that Fourth happened on Chase’s bed, the bottom bunk, barely missing the sleeping sibling.
Fifth was clearly and obviously in the threshold of the bathroom, bless this child for even attempting to get to a proper receptacle.
Sixth and subsequent heaves were conducted sorta over the sink in an effort of good faith, but mostly on the grout of a recently tiled bathroom floor.
Now, I know we are almost to the end of our story and this piece of information is important as you picture the nastiness of this situation, but I’m choosing to drop it here:
Before bed, Conner downed an entire glass of red drink. The white ceiling he projectile vomited on? Literally dripping in red throw up. The sheets, the CURTAINS, the ladder, the carpet, the bottom sheets and comforter, and the grout are not only soaked in human waste, but red and very staining red waste.
So at 1am, I helped Conner change into less disgusting pajamas, wiped his face, got him some water and Tylenol, and put him to sleep next to his brother (who had also been stripped of the majority of his clothing and bedding, but was still fast asleep).
A bucket was placed beside his bed in hopes that any future vomit would land there and not everywhere else.
This morning I was able to evaluate the carnage left behind with natural sunlight pouring in. As I sit here typing nearly 10 hours later, I can’t help but occasionally shake the wafting smell of vomit away from my face.
Someone send peppermint oil, vodka and a hazmat team. It’s all preschool up in this house, but at least I am a seasoned vet.