It's coming back up

I vomited a lot as a child. A LOT. From the age of about 4 until about 7, I would throw up after eating. I can't say it was bulimia, because it wasn't intentional. I simply ate so much that my little stomach couldn't take it.

I threw up everywhere. I had a large bowl that my parents had named, "Sarah's puke bucket," and if I was feeling queasy, it went where I went. I couldn't puke normally. Oh no. I had to projectile vomit almost every time.

I threw up in my sleep once. I didn't remember doing it, but I remember my mother cleaning me and my bed up in the morning. I think she was angry with me, but at the same time, she knew it was an accident.

I remember my grandmother and aunt babysitting my brothers and me one day. I was feeling sick, and ran for the bathroom. As soon as I got over the threshold, I projected vomit in the direction of the toilet. I didn't make the goal and I'm pretty sure that Grandma being the old-school hard-ass granny she was, yelled at me.

We took a trip to New Jersey when I was in the first grade. My aunt was getting married and I was her flower girl. We took this enormous van and traveled with my mom's parents (the good grandparents) and my 2 uncles.

On the way there, I wanted to sit up front so badly. We kids had to take turns. Mine came at night, and my grandpa was driving. I was having such a good time! Sitting up front like the big kids and watching all the lights of oncoming traffic.

It came out of nowhere. One minute I was fine, the next I was puking on the dash board of this rented van. My grandpa pulled the van over at the next rest stop and my mom got me out and cleaned me up. I'm sure my dad was busy cleaning up the van, but I don't remember. What I do remember is sitting on the back end of the van with the doors open feeling physically fine, but totally embarrassed. I also remember the fact that my mother forgot my shoes on the pavement. It wasn't until the next morning that she realized she had forgotten them. I ended up with some dime store baby blue tennis shoes that were a size or two too big for me to wear the rest of the trip. (I have pictures of me in them for proof).

I threw up in second grade in the middle of gym class. I told that stupid gym teacher a dozen times I didn't feel good. She made me run laps anyway. I hope she felt stupid after I embarrassed myself in front of my whole class. Bitch.

Fast forward a few years to college. If a night of drinking was lingering over me in the morning, I would self-induce vomiting (always in the toilet now that I had some control). It always made me feel better and made room for great cafeteria breakfast foods. As good as it made me feel afterward (seriously, that much alcohol doesn't belong in any one body), the act of throwing up physically hurt. And I was never one of those quiet pukers. I could never have been one of those bulimic girls who were able to hide it from their friends and family.

Since college, I haven't really had to pray to the porcelain god. Once when I was pregnant with Ella, and the night of my bachelorette party alongside I-80 at the Utica exit.

Fast forward again to today. I took Grayson to the doctor. He has a cold, and was diagnosed with an ear infection. Since I knew it'd take an hour to get his medicine, I took the kids for lunch at Sonic. I though some tater tots sounded good, and I love the Cherry Limeades.

I ordered a hot dog for Ella and popcorn chicken for Grayson....both with tots. After paying for the food I began to distribute it to the hungry kids in the back seat. Ella's meal was conveniently in a box, so I just handed it back to her, noticing how gross the hot dog looked. I think it had been on the rollers a little too long. I tried to give Grayson the chicken, but the pieces were too small. I ate a few and thought they tasted gross. I could smell and taste the oil they were cooked in. I decided that Grayson was not going to eat those. Not only were they a choking hazard, they weren't even edible (in my opinion). For some reason, the tots seemed fine, although I knew they were cooked in the same oil.

I stopped at McDonald's to get him chicken nuggets and proceeded to Walgreen's to get his prescription. I parked the car, turned around to Ella to tell her that we had to go into the store, and saw the look on her face.

"My tummy hurts, mommy!" she said.
"Do you have to go on the potty?" I said.
She started crying and I asked her again. "Do you need to go on the potty? Answer me! Yes or no?"

And then it happened. She started to throw up. Luckily for me, she is not a projectile vommiter. And lucky for me, she still had the box that her food came in in her lap. So, while tears streamed out of her eyes, I held the box as close to her as I could reach so she didn't get too much on her. I didn't dare let go of the box to even unbuckle my seat belt until I knew she was done.

After she was finished, I got out of the car and went to her. She was still crying, and through the tears, she says, "I don't like hot dogs anymore." I wanted to laugh. Even in these moments, she can still be cute.

There was a dumpster nearby, so I pulled the car over to it. I wanted to clean her up as fast as possible, so she wouldn't be as emotionally scarred as I knew I would have been. Who wants to sit in their own vomit for a 20-minute ride home? I stripped her down to her underwear in the back of the car and made her sit there while I cleaned up her seat. Thank goodness most of it went into the box. I hear her say from the back of the car, "Everyone can see me naked, momma." She proceeds to jump and dance around the trunk of the car, obviously feeling better.

I strapped her into her seat in just her underwear with napkins underneath her, and we went to the drive-up for Grayson's medicine. Ella tells me she's hungry and wants mac and cheese. Obviously the vomiting in the car incident didn't phase her.

The interesting thing about Ella's incident today, is that there were hot dogs involved. Hot dogs were the one food that I threw up most when I was her age. This was the 2nd bout of vomiting for her in the last 2 months. I am just hoping that all I did as a kid isn't coming back to haunt me. I'm hoping I won't be cleaning regurgitated food out of her hair in the wee hours of the morn like my mother did with me.

At least we made it home with all our shoes today.

It's just easier this way.

After a very long night with Grayson, I don't feel like doing much of anything today. I think he slept in his bed for 1 1/2 hours before he woke up with a fever (damn molars interrupting my sleep). So I assumed our normal position on the couch hoping we'd just finish off our sweet dreams there. He was just so uncomfortable that he tossed and turned the whole time. I know neither of us got any "real" sleep, yet he isn't the one lacking energy today.

I was able to do some dishes, laundry, and clean Ella's room. However, to accomplish those things, I plopped Grayson into the recliner and put on a Baby Einstein movie. When that was over (this particular one doesn't have the "repeat" option) I put in The Backyardigans.

I know all the experts say that watching TV is damaging to the children. I don't fully agree with that. I moderate what my children watch. They aren't watching Power Rangers, TMNT, or Sponge Bob (just because that show is simply stupid, not because it's really violent). They watch what I consider educational shows or interactive shows. We like stuff on Sprout, Noggin, and most things on PBS. I tried to avoid Dora and Diego as long as possible, but darn it! they just love them! We watch the Backyardigans a lot. It happens to be my favorite as well as Grayson's.

I know that they are learning stuff from these shows. Ella is constantly surprising me. I didn't know she knew how to count to ten in Spanish, or how to say "Hello" in Chinese until I heard her do so. Her imagination is a plethora of stories and ideas that I know have mostly come from television shows and movies. And I am OK with that. I know that if Grayson could talk, he'd be reciting lines from shows and telling me, "No, Mama, it's an Orca whale," just like Ella has.

It's not as though my kids would rather watch TV instead of playing outside; they love the outdoors. But on days when I feel like shit, or the humidity is too much for me, or I'm just too tired to really play with them (like today), or I need to put a dent in that never ending pile of laundry, I let them watch TV. I'm fine with it, and sometimes, it's just easier that way.

As I sit here discovering the world of bloggers, blogging, and the ever-popular blog itself, my 16-month old son Grayson is perched upon my lap eating a piece of paper. He has a hooded frog bath towel draped over his head in a superhero cape fashion, and he's devouring a piece of note paper. With his thumb in his mouth, he still manages to chew and swallow. I've no clue how he does it, nor why. It keeps him happy, the paper, and although I chase him down each and every day trying to keep him from eating books, magazines, bills, and tissues, he still manages to get his "fix." I suppose I just pick and choose my battles, and he has won this one.

He should be in bed. He's had a bottle of milk and a few stories, and yet here he is.....just wanting to be part of what I'm doing. I sit here and press my nose to the back of his head, inhaling the smell of his hair. I love cuddling him on bath nights. I know these days of snuggling, cuddling, and nose-kisses will be over in a few years, so I try to take in as much as I can.....I try to remember every smile, grin, laugh, gaze, touch and smell that comes my way from both my children.

There are times I wish we were constantly being filmed for a reality television show. At least then I'd have something to look back at when they are both grown. Sure, I take pictures and videos. I keep journals for both children and one for myself. And now I've started this blog. I think that these forms of documentation are not only for me to reminisce over later, but for the kids too. If something were to ever happen to me before Ella and Grayson are grown with children of their own, I want them to have a way to know who I am. Their daddy will only have so many stories about Mommy, and I want them to know me....really know me, and know how much I loved them and how they have impacted my life.

So now, as I wipe tears from my face and type with one hand, I think my Little Man is finally ready to go to sleep. I will snuggle with him until he's in dream land, then I myself will try to dream as well.