Puke WeekMarch 25, 2010 at 4:59 pm | Posted in Family, Giggles, Lollipop | 25 Comments
Puke Week: It’s like Shark Week, only better. So. Much. Better.
After a little more Cherry holy water, some amazing waffle fries, and a semi-decent night’s sleep, I woke up this morning and decided not to let this whole puke thing get the best of me. Probably because I had a doctor’s appointment. And if Lollipop tossed her breakfast cookies? Daddy would be the one cleaning it up. Not me.
But, anyway, I decided I’m going to celebrate puke. Yes, celebrate it. It’s a motherhood battle scar, you know? It’s like the camping merit badge you forced yourself to earn so you could fill up your Girl Scout sash. And, Sweet Thin Mints, have I earned mine.
I bet you’ve earned yours, too. I know my own mom has.
So, without further achoo ado, I present A Puke Story. Two episodes. (TLC‘s got nothin’ on me.)
A Puke Story: Puke on the Go
I was four. Or thereabouts. We were visiting my aunt and uncle, having brunch at a fancy-schmancy restaurant. I spent most of the meal feeling puny, resting on the flowered couches by the hostess stand. My Pound Puppy kept me company.
After the meal, we all loaded into my family’s blue Cutlass. My parents up front. Me in the back, in the middle, between my aunt and uncle. We started home. And I felt it. The urge. My pancakes were coming up.
I leaned over my aunt in a desperate, albeit noble attempt to roll down the window in time. Didn’t make it. Puked all over her. And the blue velvet interior.
We pulled over. In a neighborhood, luckily. Some good Samaritan grandparent-types came out to make sure I was OK and donated a jug of water and a few (hundred) towels to the cause. My aunt changed into a pair of my dad’s old jeans. I’m thinking she opted to toss hers into the nearest trash can.
Me? Surprisingly not covered in puke. But sick. My Pound Puppy and I spent the weekend on my uncle’s couch. Eating lime sherbet and watching The Smurfs.
My mom? Spent the weekend de-puking her car. I need to ask her how. (And take good notes.)
My aunt? Split from my uncle not long after. Coincidence? Hard to say. That’s the way the cookie erupts crumbles, I guess.
A Puke Story: Tuna with a Side of Puke
I have a thing about tuna. I love it. I also have a thing about routine. I love it.
Put those two quirks together? And you get me, eating a tuna sandwich, at my favorite local sub shop, once a week. Sometimes twice.
So, at this particular shop, they knew me. They knew my daughter. I always tipped. And I still haven’t forgiven them for what happened That Day.
Giggles was at that age. Too big for the infant carrier, too young to walk. So I secured him in a high chair before going up to the counter and ordering. I kept the Magic Eye in the back of my head on him as Lollipop and I waited in line. Instead of picking out the exact, right bag of Cheetos, she asked to be carried. (My first clue. Or, it should have been.)
Just as we approached the counter and I got the words “small tuna on wheat” out of my mouth, Lollipop puked. On me. On her. The guy at the counter looked at me like I had lizards for hair.
I said to put our order aside, we’d be back. I ran to the bathroom and tried to do some vomit triage. Meanwhile, Giggles sat out in the restaurant, alone, smiling and drooling at all the potential kidnappers lunch customers.
We ran back to our table (Giggles: safe), where I’m pretty sure I went through a whole package of wipes. I helped Lollipop change her clothes. Sat her in a chair. Got her some water. And told her we’d go home in just a minute.
She cried. Sad, snotty, sickly, pitiful tears. This made Giggles cry. I wanted to but managed to keep it together.
I tried to signal the guy that we’d be leaving now, thanks. He caught my eye. Pointed to my half-made order. And indicated I’d need to come pay for it. Too frazzled to argue, I did just that. Covered in puke. While my children wailed.
No one — not one of the guys who for months had been making me lunch and chatting with me about why the Mexican place next door had closed down again — asked if we were all right. If we needed help. If we needed a measly tissue.
But I got my tuna. They got their money. And the boot. Literally.
Celebrate Puke Week with me! What’s your best (worst?) puke story? How have you earned your Puke Merit Badge? What’s your disinfectant of choice?