*WARNING: vomit related*
Have you ever seen something in a movie or a book that was so horrific that it stayed with you for days afterward, the details emblazoned indelibly on your brain, popping up to ruin your sleep and your meals?
Well, that is what I had to face in the middle of the night last night when my 15 year old woke up with nausea and inexplicably decided to run upstairs to tell me about it instead of beelining for the bathroom. She was doing that pre-spew gagging thing when she got to my room, so I yelled, “The bathroom! Get to the bathroom!” She made it to the bathroom, but not to the toilet.
The amount of ick that came out of her defied the laws of physics. She painted the bathroom with her body weight’s worth of not just last night’s dinner, but what had to be all her meals going back to her tenth birthday. To paraphrase Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer, I think I saw a boot come out of her. She destroyed the room. And I don’t just mean the floor. The floor, the door, the rug, the toilet, the counter–nothing escaped. It was very similar to that one scene in Pitch Perfect; you know the one. Except worse, because of…
The smell! I’ll never know how I kept from adding my own stomach contents to what was already on the floor. I cursed and cried and gagged the entire time I was cleaning up, when what I really wanted to do was call down an airstrike on the whole house.
It was easily the most disgusting moment of motherhood so far, and that is saying something. I keep seeing it when I close my eyes. I keep smelling it in my imagination. I have vomit PTSD. Is there an equivalent of the Silver Star just for mothers? Because I totally earned it last night.
After I finished hosing down the entire disaster zone with Lysol and started the washer, I climbed back into bed and woke Paul up from a sound sleep just to say, “You owe me BIG TIME, mister.”