Of all the vomitters in all the world, my son is the very best.
Truth be told, in a puke-off, I’d put my money on Ian any day of the week. And I’d win. And then I’d have a lot of money. So if anyone knows anything about the International Hurling Circuit, please private message me right away, because I am SO getting my son in on that action. I’m going to be, like, the pageant mom of puking. There’s going to be a reality show. It’s going to be fabulous.
Because, truly, of all the vomitters in all the world, my son is the best.
You think I’m kidding because I do that on occasion, but I assure you, I am dead serious.
My son is what you’d call a prolific puker. And although it’s lessened over the years, my son still involuntarily barfs for all sorts of occasions.
Nervous? He’ll puke.
Excited? He’ll puke.
But not only is my son a voracious vomitter, he’s also very, very good at it.
Last night, a couple of my kids were retched. Retch-ed, I tell you. A bug is apparently going around school, and my kiddos flagged him down and invited him for a sleepover. The darn bug eagerly accepted and hitched a ride home.
It started with the girl child, Miss Aden, who led with a broccoli-studded explosion that covered her bed, her wall, her door and her floor. And, because our rooms are always immaculate, it also covered her deer, her horse, her blanket, her dirty clothes, her books, and her toys.
I used to think that “projectile vomiting” was an exaggerated phrase that people said to be dramatic. And then we had Aden. And she had red Kool-Aid. And I had white walls. And it was stunning. Now I believe in projectile vomiting like I believe in the sun. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. It has warmed my body.
Last night, following the initial Event, we moved Aden to our bedroom to better monitor her nocturnal activity. We know her. We know her eruption style. And we know we all have a better chance of survival if we work together. See, Aden’s what we call a stealth bomber. She’s calm. She’s quiet. She’s painted matte black, and she sneaks in under the radar. In fact, not even Aden knows when she’ll flip the Vomit Destruction switch, so the first warning we usually get of impending disaster is the veritable fountain of up-chuck raining down upon us.
When she’s finished, we need shovels, HazMat suits, a delivery truck full of Lysol, and a fool-proof evacuation plan. It takes a lot of man-hours, but we’re experts.
So, as soon as Aden was ensconced in our bedroom, we lined it with towels. Floor to ceiling. Ceiling to floor. And then we waited for the explosions to come. Blast after terrifying blast, we whisked the towels away to the laundry room for a spin on the two-hour “extra sanitary cycle.” I rubbed Aden’s back and said, “I’m sorry, baby. Shhhhh. I’m so sorry.” We bathed her and washed away the aftermath. I braided and rebraided her hair while Greg shot anything that moved with his sharp-shooter Lysol skillz.
Then we crashed back into bed to the scent of aerosol bleach and the ker-clunk, ker-clunk sound of the washing machine and readied ourselves for the next round.
And the next round and the next, ’til Aden finally settled down around 4:00am.
Which was the exact same time that Ian grabbed the barfing baton and began his early morning, cross country trek for the gold medal of gushing. The sound alone was tremendous, as Ian tried to turn himself inside out, starting with his toes. He heaved in enormous and enthusiastic bursts. Of course, we checked on him time and again, because that’s what parents do… and because we needed to be sure the house was still sound amidst the shaking. And every single time, Ian gave us the thumbs up and asked us…
…to do absolutely NOTHING.
You know why? Because Ian is a Heaving Hero. He’s a Super Spewer.
And he always – and I mean always – has perfect aim.
Have you ever seen an expert javelin thrower cast his spear with perfect precision? Or a quarterback find that split-second opening and, across 45 yards, hit his wide receiver exactly in the sweet spot?
That is Ian with vomit and a toilet. I don’t care how far away this kid is from the privy – at home, at school, in an airport or on a train – in a box, with a fox, over there and everywhere – when Ian starts to blow, I can count on him hitting his mark. In eight years as his mama, since we adopted him at the tender age of three, I don’t believe I’ve ever had to clean up his vomit.
And I will tell you right now, in the middle of a sea of pukers, and feeling some serious sympathy-nausea my own dang self… that I LIKE that about my son. And I am not even kidding.