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Thank goodness
Jun. 18th, 2003 05:31 pmI have a child who is usually VERY healthy, because this afternoon's adventures are NOT ones I'd like to repeat.
So, it's about 12:30. I'm making lunch for me, Imagy and I are discussing what Widget's going to have for lunch, and Widget's playing on the floor in the kitchen. She's coughing a little, and we're speculating that perhaps she's caught a little cold, and that's why she's been a Whineocerous this morning.
When all of a sudden, there's little hurk noise, and a spreading puddle of pink (thanks, strawberries for breakfast) vomit on the floor. A few more hurks and a lot more vomit, and then some panic-y cries from Widget. Uh. YUCK. Have I mentioned that I hate vomit? I'd rather scrape dog poo off my shoe with my finger than deal with vomit.
I start breathing through my nose and run in to give her a hug. Double YUCK, she's got vomit all down the front of her. I'm trying to calm her down, she's burying her face in my hair, when, you guessed it, *HURK* all over me. In my hair, on my shirt, on my pants, on my shoes.
Poor thing didn't know WHAT was going on, she was all upset. Imagy, who's a saint, cleaned up the kitchen floor while I took Miss Widget upstairs and got her changed into her pajamas. Throw the clothes into the incinerator (I mean, the washing machine). Ick.
I'm still amazed at how calm I managed to be. You know that whole "inside, I'm screaming" schtick? That was me. Inside, all I could think was YUCKYUCKYUCKYUCKYUCK, and outside, all I was saying was "It's okay, honey. It's fine" while I calmed the babe down.
But I don't want to do it again anytime soon. BLEAH.
So, it's about 12:30. I'm making lunch for me, Imagy and I are discussing what Widget's going to have for lunch, and Widget's playing on the floor in the kitchen. She's coughing a little, and we're speculating that perhaps she's caught a little cold, and that's why she's been a Whineocerous this morning.
When all of a sudden, there's little hurk noise, and a spreading puddle of pink (thanks, strawberries for breakfast) vomit on the floor. A few more hurks and a lot more vomit, and then some panic-y cries from Widget. Uh. YUCK. Have I mentioned that I hate vomit? I'd rather scrape dog poo off my shoe with my finger than deal with vomit.
I start breathing through my nose and run in to give her a hug. Double YUCK, she's got vomit all down the front of her. I'm trying to calm her down, she's burying her face in my hair, when, you guessed it, *HURK* all over me. In my hair, on my shirt, on my pants, on my shoes.
Poor thing didn't know WHAT was going on, she was all upset. Imagy, who's a saint, cleaned up the kitchen floor while I took Miss Widget upstairs and got her changed into her pajamas. Throw the clothes into the incinerator (I mean, the washing machine). Ick.
I'm still amazed at how calm I managed to be. You know that whole "inside, I'm screaming" schtick? That was me. Inside, all I could think was YUCKYUCKYUCKYUCKYUCK, and outside, all I was saying was "It's okay, honey. It's fine" while I calmed the babe down.
But I don't want to do it again anytime soon. BLEAH.