I put Zac to bed last night right before 8pm. He had vomitted once in the backseat of my Dad's car on the way home from dinner, but otherwise seemed just fine. The noxious gas from his diaper was powerful, yet no actual poop was coming out. I cleaned him up and put him to bed without further ado.
Around 11:45pm, I hear him coughing. Then I hear nothing and then, the tell-tale crying. I walk in and find him sitting up in his crib next to even more vomit. It was all over his stuffed rabit and the homemade blanket, all over his sheets and all over him. I picked him up, took off his pajamas, changed his diaper, and did what any self-respecting single Mom who had to get up early the next morning to go to a meeting would do: I let him sleep next to me and promised myself that I would clean his sheets tomorrow.
At 12:30am, (Oh - should I even finish this story? Can you see where this is all going? Hasn't my child been degraded enough by my broadcast of his illness and the subsequent bodily fluids? Answer: Nope) I feel a very warm splash of liquid and chunky parts hit my head. He had sat up from his pillow next to me, turned, and vomitted - ON ME. After the initial splash, I tried to encourage him to only puke on his pillow, but directing a child's puke is like trying to catch mist - you can't do it.
The funny thing (because afterall, if I didn't find humor in it, I would have to revoke my mothering qualifications, of which I have none, and it was my fault - sort of - for letting a sick child sleep in bed with me) was that he wasn't completely awake when he puked. When I stripped him naked and put his puky ass in the bathtub, he freaked the fuck out. Apparently, luke warm water is not a relaxing way to wake up after spewing the contents of your stomach on your primary caregiver.
Back into bed, for both of us. I had to put a towel down on the bed and use a pillow from the other room. At 6:15am, I encountered all of the vomit-splattered clothing and household objects with the fresh perspective of the morning. My stomach pitched and heaved in response. I've been feeling queesy all morning. I'm not sure if I have what Zac has or if being that close to vomit that isn't mine has made my stomach second guess actually digesting food.
The good news (and I have to find some with a week like this) is that Zac vomitting on me made Mr. Tugboat's actions slightly more bearable. He stood me up for an office party and then broke up with me over the phone, saying that we want different things from life and that's he's going to have a vasectomy. I realized that I would have been much angrier at him if he had puked on me and then told me that he really sees me as more of a friend. It wouldn't have been funny at all, just more tragic.
It also made me realize exactly how much I love my son, puke and all.