Dad’s Gonna Lose It!
The Sick Child
Sometimes it seems like this winter has decided it hates my schedule and that I should change it. In order to force me to comply life has sought out the most efficient means of making me alter my plans: A swift kick in the… stomach. Let me take you back to Sunday night when, after a day of just spending time together a young family is preparing their youngest member for bed. Little did they know rather than drifting lazily off to the sweet land of dreams a living nightmare would visit them instead. The sick child would be born to life in spectacular and horrifying fashion.
I’m sure many of you know from my first post on when my child gets sick (found here), I have a famously weak stomach. I cannot hear someone act as though they are vomiting on TV without gagging. If I spend too much time in recall mode about a time I vomited, or saw someone else do so, I will gag. Suffice to say I’m a pansy ass when it comes to sickness.
So when I laid my young son to bed and kissed him goodnight you can only imagine the horror of taking two steps out of the room and hearing a short gag followed by a watery, spilling sound. I ran to my son, instincts overcoming my thoughts of self preservation, and lifted him, still spewing from his bed. I held him until my dear, dear wife, came to retrieve him and whisk him away to be cleaned. This left me to clean up the crime scene-esk aftermath of the bedroom. Then I heard the same horrible “grrgh, grrgh, plop”(just gagged while writing that) come from the hallway. The same hallway I would have to traverse to get the materials needed for the bio-hazard clean up.
Sticking my head around the corner as if I expected to be attacked I saw my wife ushering my little boy into the bathroom as he cried. Poor little guy. Then I saw the puddle beyond and my eyes began to water, my throat tightened, and my stomach tensed like I was doing my 300th crunch in a row, but I fought against the urge to repeat my son’s show. After all the only thing worse than a sick child is a sick adult. I tend to eat more than him.
30 minutes, much gagging, eye-watering, deep breathing, and literally pounding on door frames telling myself to “quit being a pussy”, all evidence of the previous happenings had vanished. The floors were clean the sheets and mattress cover changed, the washing machine running in the background, and my poor sick child was laying on the couch next to a trash can.
Approximately two hours and ten rounds of vomiting later we decided it might be worth a trip to the hospital just in case. The boy couldn’t keep spit down. So we went. They gave him some nausea meds, took his temperature and sent us on our way 5 hours later. At this point his mother only had about 2 hours until work, but soldiered on. I was left at home with the boy, who, by the way, had not slept more than 30 minutes at a stretch since we got home. Finally, at hour 30 without sleep I was able to pass out in my recliner for a few minutes, before having to wake up and do a bit of work. My sleep deprived mind, however was not functioning crisply enough for me to publish an article for the world to see.
After two days of having a sick child home with me he finally got his appetite back and kept the food down. I was able to get in a full 6 hours of sleep. I’ll admit I could have gotten more, but I was trying to get some late-night work done because I’m an idiot. Still it was rejuvenating enough for me to pound away on the keyboard for a bit and make a few decisions.
Because my child never seems to get sick during the day, preferring, I suppose, late night trips to the hospital, we have moved his Pediasure up in the day. This is, really, the most important decision of them all. I am tired of mopping up thick, chocolate milk-like drinks after discovering that my child is sick. It is, by far, the most vile drink one could ever experience seeing projectile vomited across the room. Think The Exorcist starring a toddler rather than a pee soup shooting teen.
Another decision that I made, which may be important in the future, is that I am not made for janitorial work at a school and I have a newfound respect for those that hold this position. I solute you and your iron-lined stomach. I can only imagine the horrors that you have seen spewed on the floors of the school. Actually, I just gagged, so I think I’ll refrain from even doing that.Follow me on social media!