Sunday my Facebook timeline was filled with messages of “He is risen!” and I was like, “He’s not the only one,” as I squirmed in my bed, sandwiched in between a husband and a 5 year old. The 5 year old’s heavy breathing was giving me the worries. Then there was the dreaded “My tummy hurts.”
I knew it was only a matter of time before she blew.
Only she didn’t. She went back to bed, I laid with her, she complained, I tried to console her, since I had no kid friendly nausea medicine. Honestly, I was just hoping the whole thing would blow over. We had plans to attend church with Christian’s boss and then head to a friend’s for Easter lunch/beer drinking. Tummy bugs? Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat!
And then she did blow. 5 minutes after I went back to my own bed.
I knew it. I KNEW it. I knew I shouldn’t have left the room. I may not have many parenting instincts, but I have a killer vomit radar, and I ignored it.
My husband tried to convince me that she would be okay to go to Easter service. But with my vomit radar fully established, I told him he was crazy. He said it would be fine. I said you’re nuts, there’s no way I’m taking her all the way down south with the chance that she’ll upchuck all over herself and my car. He said pack extra clothes and a towel. I said get dressed, you’re going. Take the other two with you.
So we sat around and watched TV. She took another trip to the sink because she refuses to throw up in the toilet, so thank goodness it was not of the chunky variety. We snuggled up in my bed to take a nap (I’d been up since 5am with her, people), and as soon as I dozed off, she jumped up and claimed that she had to throw up again. That one was a photo finish.
See, isn’t this fun? This is fun.
After lunch she was better. I snuck in a nap while they all watched a movie. Call it an Easter miracle. Then Zoe seemed to sense that things were getting boring, so she decided to throw up Linda Blair style. At first I faulted the orange jellybean I gave her, since she happily accepted it, seemed to choke a little, then vomit. All over my feet. Some of it may have landed on the kitchen tile, but mostly my feet.
I was carefully crafting my letter of complaint to the jellybean company insisting compensation for 1/4 cup of vinegar I used to mop my no longer pristine floor and the emotional trauma of having to smell partially digested Annie’s mac and cheese when she walked up to us an hour later with a strange look on her face and her tongue half sticking out of her mouth. Christian had the good fortitude to yell, “She’s gonna blow!” and I ushered her to the toilet where she gripped the seat and aimed like an old pro. She’ll make a good college student one day.
So that was our Easter. No church, no lunch with friends. Instead of the swanky outfit I had planned (a rare occurrence for me), I wore the tank top and shorts I slept in. I’m still wearing them, writing this post. You’re welcome. But at least a few people got to dress up today.