No, not me. One of the kids. Seems Jordan has decided to take ill. Right now. Two weeks and a smidge before Christmas. (That’s 6 days before our famed Reindeer Games family party—to be held at our house.)
I’m sure all will be well, and he will be finished with his projectile barfing well before the guests arrive, but in the unlikely circumstance that you arrive on Saturday and our home smells like barf, please do your best to pretend that you don’t smell anything. I’ll try to mask the odor with cinnamon-scented holiday candles, thus creating a lovely holiday eau de cinnamon-barf scent that I’m sure will be stocked on every Bed, Bath & Beyond shelf for years to come.
And don’t they know this isn’t the time of year for this? It’s time to hustle and to bustle and to ho-ho-ho. There are presents to wrap and bows to curl and cards to mail. And dust to remove from the light fixtures before guests arrive. But alas, this is the plight of a mom.
Ok, confession time. This is actually the plight of a dad. Because—and I may have mentioned this before—I don’t do vomit. There are a lot of things I can do. I have picked poop up off the carpet, both from little people and pets, and I’m ok with that. (Well, I mean, it’s not pleasant, but I can survive it.) I have removed moldy food from the fridge, although I admit to sometimes throwing out the whole container simply because I couldn’t stomach cleaning it. And I have wiped many a butt in my day. But I simply don’t DO puke.
It’s warm and slimy and usually chunky, which is enough to make me toss my cookies right alongside the sick kid du jour. And you know, kids NEVER EVER make it to an appropriate disposal area for the above-mentioned projectile—like, say the toilet, for example. Ohhhh, nooooo. In fact, usually the event occurs smack in the middle of their little bed, right on top of the gazillion fleece blankets that are piled on because it’s so cold outside. And do you know that fleece can soak up an enormous amount of vomit? Yes, yes it can. In fact, it will soak all the way through every layer of blanket on the bed, right down to the mattress, which thankfully, is covered in toddler-proof vinyl for easy bleaching and disinfecting.
And to add to the misery of the situation, you know that everyone Jordan has managed to breathe on in the last few days will probably be barfy as well, leading to a full-blown barf epidemic in our household. I’m currently considering renting a hotel room for myself for the holidays.
I like to think I’m a pretty ok mommy. I read stories, and I bake cookies (yeah, the kind that are already mixed and cut and packaged at the store, but still, I set the oven to 350, and I don’t burn them, so that totally counts.) I even clip little toenails and wash hair and play silly games. But ewww to puke. Is is wrong to quarantine a 3-year-old? In the basement?