"A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity,
it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path."
~ Agatha Christie

Alex, Cole and Braden - At 2 years, 2 months

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Vomit Sponge


Is it wrong to have two post titles within months of each other have "vomit" in the title?

Yep, cover your ears kids - it's time for another post about vomit.  

Friday, after Braden's MRI, I emotionally crashed.  We put the kids to bed and all I wanted was a cup of Dark Mayan Chocolate Coffee (awesome.) and to immerse myself in New Moon.  Mike was getting a serious sinus cold, so combined with his allergies, he was out for the night.  I needed a good dose of Edward.

I stoked the wood stove and planted myself on the floor, yes, on the floor, in front of it, and prepared to sink into oblivion.  

I was about 3 sips and 2 chapters in...and I heard the thinnest of whines coming from upstairs. I am not even close, mind you, but with so many cries in the last few years, my ears are finely tuned.  It was Cole, and I hoped he was still asleep.  

I decided to ignore it for a moment, and desperately hoped that would be it. After a few minutes, my wish seemed to be granted and I folded back into bliss. The floor and my back were so nice and warm, the cat was purring on the side of my leg - and the Christmas lights in the front room were still there to provide just enough glow to read by.  I was seriously in heaven.  

And then the cry repeated itself, sounding so pitiful this time, I just had to go upstairs to check it out.  I worried he might be having a nightmare.  I optimistically placed the book upside down on the floor, still open, to return to in mere moments.  I had already fallen into pace with the story (even though Edward was no longer there...) and my belly was still warm with the heady mix of chocolate and coffee.  The fire was raging, not damped down for the night, and a few lights were still on. 

I headed upstairs, and as soon as I hit the landing, I knew my night was already over.

The sickly-sweet smell of vomit reached my nostrils as I heard the third cry coming from inside the room.  I felt a rush of resentment, followed quickly by pity and then dread.  Walking in the room, there sat my sleepy-eyed and miserable Cole, soaked with throw-up from head to toe. Even from the dim glow provided by their night light, I could see that the walls and the slats of his crib were just covered, his pillow, the sheets, all soaked.  He just looked up at me with a look that said, "fix it, Mommy, so I can go back to sleep."  

I was quick to pick him up - though carefully away from me - and swooped him over to the changing table across the room.  He was dutiful and remained silent, perhaps knowing that if his brother and sister woke up, his chances of going back to sleep were slim.  Or maybe that was just my take on things.

He shivered and shook while I undressed him and wiped him down, and relaxed as I bundled him up in nice, warm and fuzzy new PJs.  I laid him on the rug, covered with a blanket and ordered him in a whisper to stay put.  He just watched me as I tried to silently change a crib sheet without waking babies a mere foot away.  I managed, proud of my stealth (for I am not a stealthy person), to change the sheet and wipe the walls and crib slats down, finding that the side of the dresser needed the cleaning treatment too, without waking or even stirring the other two.  Cole must have been both sick and sleepy, for he stayed on the rug (a 21 month old!) the whole time just watching me in silence.  

I hugged him for a while and then placed him back in the crib with a new blanket and no pillow, and hoped he would sleep.  I gathered the evidence and slipped quietly out of the room.  I felt satisfied - changing him back into a snuggly, warm, sleeping boy. 

With that satisfaction, I prepared to settle back into my own personal heaven, but figured that if he was sick, really sick, I might need to prepare my night for the worst.  It was already after midnight, and I should have been in bed hours before, but I needed my little bit of pampering time.  

I stoked the fire and damped it down, I prepared the house for slumber, I set up my bed on the couch in case he needed more from me than just a change and a bed dressing.  

Then, I set myself down again, cringing for the worst.  I was able to get another two chapters in, almost letting down my guard, when I heard the gagging. Sighing, I knew this part of my night was over, and worse, that a very exhausting part was about to begin.

I flipped off the last light and headed upstairs to try it all again.  When I entered the room, though, the other two were already stirring.  I panicked and froze.  That would make it sooooo much worse!  I quietly stole Cole out of his second personal mess and decided to bail before the "others" woke.  

I've been reading too many vampire novels.       

I quickly cleaned and changed Cole into another outfit and got him out of the room just in time. I had to leave the mess, but sacrifices had to be made for the good of the team.  

I laid down on my second bed in the living room and brought him onto my chest, snuggling him as I used to do when he was a baby in the throes of a colicky night.  It felt good.  He slept for a bit, and I wondered briefly if I needed a bucket.  "He threw up a bucketload twice, how much more does he have in him?" I stupidly asked myself.  I fell asleep for about 15 minutes.  

That's when I became a Vomit Sponge.

I don't know about you mothers out there, but I am sick of being a "body waste" sponge!  I've been puked on, spit on, drooled on, peed on, even pooped on more times than I care to admit - I am sooo done with this!  

Laying on my chest, he gave me about 2 seconds warning, only by slightly sitting up, that he was about to blow.  Luckily I was wearing a very absorbent sweatshirt and PJ bottoms, so they caught it all.  And I mean ALL of it.  He heaved forever, and this time it was mostly all liquid. 

Now, Mike had taken one of those night time cold medicines before bed which rendered him semi-comatose, so this is the first he heard of the bedlam going on.  I just remember squeezing my eyes shut, holding him tight to me and just repeating "ugh, ugh, ugh, eww, eww, eww" over and over.  Mike heard that.  He came out of the bedroom for the last verse of his Vomit Serenade.  

Surprisingly, I expected there to be puke on the couch and the floor, but, no...it was all on me.  I felt...heavier.  My sweatshirt tugged with the weight and I needed a shower.  I changed as quick as I could with a 20 pound shirt on, wishing I could hop in the shower but knowing that was out of the question, and head back out to the living room to do it again.  Changing him this time, he started to get grouchy...how much can a toddler handle at 2 in the morning?  He wanted his crib, but it was still full of his last explosion. And after the outpouring of fluid and emotion, I doubted the kids upstairs were going to stay asleep for another change in the dark.  So, I tried to hold him to me, this time with no pressure on his tummy, and begged him to sleep.  

This is where the necessity of some parts of parenting triplets intersects with the luxury of a mom who might only have one.  He did not want me.  He wanted his crib.  Months of training the kids to be good at sleeping alone were backfiring on me now.  He wanted his crib.  Not me.  Not snuggly, protecting, warm Mommy...he wanted the crib.  So, after an hour of fighting me to get off the couch, I was so tired and I let him go.  

He took a few steps off the couch, stumbling to the softly lit Christmas tree...looked up at it... and then collapsed, tummy on the floor, falling instantly asleep.  Hmph!  He'd rather the floor than me?  I took a mental note to be resentful of that when we were both rested again...But I was so tired, I actually left him there, my head was swimming and screaming for sleep and I went under a deep sea just as quickly.  I woke up an hour later with a gasp, looking over at the spot where I thought Cole must have gone in a dream...and there he was. Still asleep.  

On the cold floor!  At least there was carpet beneath him.  Feeling like a bad mom, I snagged him up and pulled him to the couch again.  Luckily he stayed asleep and vomit free until dawn. A full 2-3 hours of sleep. 

Oh, what a night.

1 comment:

Aunt Roey said...

You make me feel guilty for laughing out loud at your awful nite---but your vivid descriptions make the blog run like a "movie in my head" & I can actually picture the whole scenario. Bless your heart for sharing this with us.