We’ve recently started giving potty training a half-ass attempt with Carter. That shit is for the birds. You know what else is for the birds? 3 rounds of whatever God awful stomach bug had been circulating this summer all within one week. Ya heard. Deklan got it, then Carter got it, and then Deklan got it for the second time a short 5 days later. Word to your mother.
Speaking of mothers, let’s talk about the difference between a mother’s instincts and a father’s instincts. A mother will instinctively catch her child’s puke in her hands before she’ll let it hit the carpet. A father will panic, watch him puke on the carpet, and then look over at the mother like “now what?” Or at least that’s how it went down in our house at 4 in the morning when Deklan came to Chris’ side of the bed to tell him he had just thrown up in his sleep. Before we were even awake enough to process what was happening I could sense more was on its way, because momstincts (is that a word? If not, let’s make it one). And then he puked all over the carpet while daddy stood frozen watching it unfold. Ugh. I was already going on 3 hours of sleep as it was after having stayed up way too late prepping for an important meeting that I was no longer going to make, so the last thing I wanted to do in the middle of the night was scrub puke out of the carpet, bedding, and pj’s. These are the moments as a working mom when you feel like throwing in the towel on the idea of “doing it all”.
It wasn’t until Chris had left for work a couple hours later that things really spiraled out of control. “Mommy, I think I pooped” he said while lying next to me in MY bed. FML. I scooped him up and took two steps towards the bathroom before he declared he was also going to puke again. I could tell we weren’t going to make it to the bathroom, so I quickly set him down and held out my hands just in time to catch the puke. “WALK, WALK, WALK!” I yelled as I shuffled him towards the bathroom while trying to keep the handful of puke from spilling over onto the carpet. We were almost to the tile when I could hear him gagging. I couldn’t fit anymore puke in my hand so I basically shoved him with my knee across the finish line and listened to the splatter of the puke on the tile the same time I was tossing the puke from my hands into the sink. This can’t possibly get any worse. But it does, because then he starts crying saying he doesn’t know if he is going to puke or poop again. I know that feeling and the answer is both, so I sit him on the toilet and hand him the trash can. I don’t think you need a description to know what happens next.
As I stood there rubbing his back, taking inventory of all the things that had puke or poop on them, I realized I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet. Welcome to your day, Amy
By noon he was on the mend and I was praising the lord this was a sprint and not a marathon. God laughed and gave the virus to Carter 3 days later, and then Carter gave it back to Deklan 2 days after that. Moral of the story is, things could always be worse.
For more horror stories on this subject, take a trip down memory lane to the time I bought Carter a turd emoji balloon after a 3 week run with diarrhea in an old post titled Howdy Ho!
Keep on, keepin’ on, my friends!
