Crazy Love

I've never been one to come to the aid of friends who were throwing up. I've always been a bit weak of the stomach when it comes to bodily functions. In college, I never held anyone's hair out of her face while she hurled and I never expected anyone to do that for me. Although, I don't think it was necessary more than once or twice anyway.

Blood doesn't bother me in the least. But I don't do vomit very well. I got my fill taking care of my mom and grandmother. It seems like my mom was constantly getting sick because of some diabetic complication or the other and my grandmother died of stomach cancer so she was sick a lot the last few months of her life. I took a several week leave from high school to help care for her because we couldn't afford a nurse. I've dealt with blood, vomit, bloody vomit, poop, feeding tubes, and all kinds of crazy sick-room gross-outs.

Still, I've found myself getting furious with people for vomiting near me and found myself embarrassed by getting sick near others.

Yet, I've discovered, as I'm sure any of you who are parents have, that the nature of vomit totally changes when the person getting sick is your child. I never, in a million years, would have imagined that someone could not only get sick near me, but ON me and I wouldn't want to throw them through a window. But it has happened.

Friends, on Saturday night my darling baby boy was sick. Friday night, he developed a high fever, but had no other symptoms. On Saturday, he still seemed like he felt a little puny, but was otherwise fine and the fever was gone. Unfortunately, it all went down hill after he went to bed on Saturday night.

About 10 p.m., he woke up crying. When I went into his room, I knew instantly that he had thrown up because the lovely aroma hit me in the face as soon as I opened his door. Poor little guy.

So, I took him out of his crib, got a tub of water, and gave him a sponge bath on his changing table. Then, as I was carrying him over to his dresser to get some fresh jammies, he threw up all over the front of my sweater. I was calm. No problem. It's all part of being a mommy, I told myself. I hugged him and told him it was okay and he'd be fine.

After getting the jammies out, I took him back to the changing table to start again. I decided to take off my yucky, soaking wet sweater and t-shirt and finish the job in my bra and jeans. Everything's going fine and I've got him clean and ready to go. Then, just as I lift him up so I can get his pjs on him, the poor little dude hurls on me again. This time directly onto flesh and straight down into the waist of my jeans. I am, at this point, covered in hot, lumpy, orange baby vomit from my neck to my groin. Fun stuff on a Saturday night.

Somehow, Beckett managed not to get a drop on himself, so I carried him and his clean pjs downstairs to Scott and took a quick shower and put on my pjs. I was gone about 10 min. and in that time, Beckett managed not to throw up on his dad. So, I settle in on the couch with the sick groggy baby on my lap. I've never seen him so sad. He's always such a happy guy and usually so independent. It was unusual for him to want to fall asleep on me, but that's just what he was doing, when all of a sudden, he threw up again. On my nice, comfy, clean pajamas.

It's just strange and amazing to me, though, that my overriding emotions were sympathy and sadness. I just wanted to make him feel better and figure out why he was sick. When I've had to deal with sickies in the past, who weren't my children, even if I felt bad for them, I've always been kind of annoyed even if it wasn't their fault they were ill. Who knew a mother's love could abide such an abundance of gross?

I guess I do now.