“Please stop throwing up. Please with a cherry on top? Oh a cherry makes you want to puke. With “whatever-you-want” on top that will not make you puke. A pony. You can have a pony, jesus christ. I’ll make you a pony sundae, just please don’t throw up on.. me.. damn.”
Me. Night before last with The Viking and into her 8th hour of puking.
Jesus tap-dancing christ. Kids can be icky. It isn’t their fault. My poor unknowing daughter’s stomach got bitch slapped by a “pissed off pimp” of a virus. She greeted me with a helloooooo blerg at 11 pm. What ensued can only be described as puke-topia. Every towel, washcloth, t-shirt, and blanket was covered. This level of ick really was new for me. So yay experience! Can you imagine my maniacal happy smile?
Kids do not come with manuals or handbooks. I think I learned that night two of her life when I did not know what to do with her. I mean, I am supposed to take her home? At that time I was starting to dive head first, no life preserver into post-partum depression that nearly killed me. So I was a little off my rocker. I will write in great detail when I am ready to relive the bits I remember.
Mark and I just started surfing the waves of puke, laughing at how ridiculous the clean up was going to be, and trying to keep our babies’ spirits up. In an odd way it was a good experience for both of us. As we dorkily like to say, “Team Tabler” and then we fist bump like we are cool.
Also, she is adorable even if she does not throw up rainbows and butterflies. We made it through her first bought of illness. Go us!