Every once in a while there comes a post in which I fulfill the worst expectations of the so-called “mommy blogger.” Now I, personally, don’t consider myself a mommy blogger, at least not in the technical sense. I don’t have a wide readership to whom I write and I wouldn’t say the majority of my posts concern parenting directly. I do try to steer clear of the more unpleasant aspects – combing through the archives you’ll find very few mention of bodily functions, for example. However, to the child-free among us, a little kid talk goes a long way and has a rapid cumulative effect, and even a single post like the one that follows is likely to make the uninitiated reel in horror – and cement their opinion that all parents suffer massive loss of intellect and ability to have meaningful dialogue.
For those of you who fit that description, I give you the following pictures of adorable baby animals to distract you from the fact that I’m about to spend the next 600 words or so talking about vomit.
A couple hours after dinner tonight Eliza complained of a tummy ache. I hoped she’d just eaten too much but…..no. The yakking commenced soon after (two words, to help you feel my pain: hot dogs) and continued periodically even after she went to bed early at 7:30.
After the first few upchucks it became clear that this was going to put a slight wrinkle in our plans for tomorrow. Then, as I considered it further I realized the ripples from this barf fest could extend through the rest of the week.
You see, I had promised the kids a special treat tomorrow. Last week I rediscovered a local coffee shop I hadn’t patronized in years. The two older kids have been there but it’s been so long ago they don’t remember it. I told them that, for fun, we should get up one weekday morning, a little early, dash through our getting ready routine and then go eat breakfast there before school. They were excited at the idea and we settled on tomorrow as the day. Clearly this is no longer an option, because even if this is a brief visit to Chunderland and Eliza’s made a miraculous recovery by morning she probably needs a little extra sleep, not being shaken awake earlier than usual and dragged out in the cold to get pancakes.
This leaves us now looking at Tuesday, but that’s not going to work. I have already promised Madalyn I will eat lunch with her at her school. And when I say “lunch” what I actually mean is “brunch”, as the cafeteria ladies start spooning slop onto trays at the ungodly hour of 10:50 a.m. there. This is not conducive to having a large breakfast because, contrary to my outward appearance, I don’t eat that much and there’s no way I’ll be hungry for Lunchables at 10:50 if I’ve eaten pancakes at 7:30.
There’s more to tell about how this sudden malady affects our entire week but I suddenly realize the story is dragging on way too long and that it’s about 90 minutes later than when I had originally planned o go to bed. A quick wrap-up: Wednesday’s out because I have an appointment in the city for which I have to get ready while the kids eat breakfast here at home so I can leave as soon as I drop them off. There’s some damned problem with Thursday, as well, which means Friday is the earliest we can now do our special breakfast. Not only this but also consider: if Eliza is still feeling punk in the morning we will have to skip going to see Johnny be honored for being Outstanding Student at his school this week. If she continues to throw up into tomorrow morning that means she will miss school Tuesday as she’s not supposed to go until it’s been 24 hours she last hurled.
If I really stretch I can also theorize that she could really be sick and this could continue for days, causing her to miss dance on Tuesday, my having to cancel my Wed. appointment to stay home with her, and then my thought processes really start to veer off into Loonland and I begin envisioning hospital stays, the Ebola virus, etc.
Now, after all that, I’m sitting here staring at the screen at 11:58 p.m. wondering how on earth to wrap this up and tie it with a nice little bow – and failing miserably. I think all my bows are in the washing machine along with my good plush blanket and the clothes I was wearing when Eliza turned my living room into a vomitorium. All that’s left is to admit defeat and hit “publish”