I’d been asleep for about a half hour last night when I heard the dreaded sounds of gagging and puke hitting the sheet as Olivia struggled to sit up in her bed and spew copious amounts of vomit on every single blanket, sheet and pillow in her bed.
Ahem, I mean, poor baby. I got her out of bed and helped her to the bathroom, dropping chunks along the way.
I helped her rinse out her mouth and then started the bath. There was puke in her hair, all over her pajamas, everywhere. She couldn’t go back to bed like that. I put her in the warm bath and then stripped her bed, being careful not to dribble anymore of the nastiness around the room than we’d already spread.
I got Olivia some juice, asked her if her stomach still hurt, washed her hair, got clean pajamas for her and helped her dry off and put on those pajamas.
She was pale but not running a fever so I got a bucket and then put her in my bed. She fell back to sleep almost instantly. Puking and then middle of the night bathing is a lot of work for a frail eight year old.
She slept soundly all night with nary another tummy rumble.
This morning the first thing she said to me was, “Can I go tell Daddy that I barfed last night?”
Ha! It might have been the most exciting (and disgusting) thing to happen to her this month. Poor kid.
Tom took the news well, though he did tell her that she should settle in to rest on the older, crappy recliner rather than on the nicer, newish couch. She ignored him, getting all comfy on the very couch Tom tries to preserve, even three years into owning it.
I reminded him that she’s puked on that couch before and that he’s proven he’s a pro at getting red puke stains out of the upholstery. He reminded me that he’d been able to do that because I’d been there to tend to Liv while he took on cleaning duty.
He’s right. When the kids puke, my first inclination is to take care of them. His first instinct is to clean the furniture.
We agreed that we make a pretty good team.