Down and Dirty Mothering
Yesterday, after work, I had to brave the grocery store to get last-minute Valentine’s Day supplies for my kids. I wanted to get a surprise gift for my boyfriend, as well, but nothing at Kroger looked good, so I decided I’d wait until this morning and try somewhere else.
I stopped on the way home from the grocery store and bought my kids a nutritious dinner from Whataburger.
I came home, force-fed the burgers and chicken strips, nagged everyone about homework and chores, and then started my work. My other work, I mean. Not my day job, but my writing. While I worked, I kept in touch with my kids’ activities via frequent hollering.
I worked my brians out. I tore it up. I finished what I’d set out to do so many weeks before, thank God. And then, two of my children screamed. “Mom! Dallas threw up!”
I ran into one of the bedrooms just in time to see Dallas projectile vomit all over the floor, the bed, and his music stand. Quick as a mom, though, I took care of the situation. Within half an hour, all was purged and everything detoxed.
Dallas asked to lie on the couch and watch TV while his brothers finished up their chores and pre-bedtime rituals. I said okay. I went back to work (there’s always more work to do) and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He fell asleep on the couch. His brothers fell asleep in the other bedroom, the one that had clean sheets.
Dallas woke up suddenly and puked into the bowl I’d left on the floor at his side. I jumped up and helped him, then detoxed again. I realized I would have to put Dallas in my bed for the night, since he obviously had a virus or else seriously bad Whataburger poisoning.
So, then, Dallas and I went to bed, whereupon we entered a twilit hell. From 9 PM until 6:30 AM, we never slept for more than a half-hour stretch. I won’t go into extreme detail, but I will say that, during the night, I queued up a lot of emergency laundry, including two sets of bed sheets, two blankets, three pillows, two towels, four washclothes, one set of woman-sized pajamas and three pairs of boy-sized boxers.
Poor Dallas.
In the morning, my other two sons got themselves dressed and went to the schoolbus stop. I supervised this via hollering from my bed, or from the bathroom as I held Dallas’ head, as the moment required.
I went ahead and called in sick to work. (Because I also had diarrhea today, hence it was a real sick day, hence anyone reading this who may have the power to dock my pay for today will know not to do so. Ahem.) Dallas and I managed to sleep from 7 to 10 AM. Then I got up and showered and ran back to the grocery store to replenish our supplies of Immodium, toilet paper, Gaterade, and soup. I didn’t get my boyfriend anything for Valentine’s day, after all. Instead, I texted him and told him not to come over for dinner, after all. He was going to cook for us, but I didn’t want him to end up sick.
It was funny that I got an impromptu day off today, because I’d already finished the writing I had to do, so I didn’t have much to do at all but look after my kid. And laundry. And cooking dinner. (And I did write a little, anyway, of course, while Dallas slept. There’s always stuff you can write, if you’re trying to make extra money.) Whatever he had, passed. Thank God.
It was weird: Watching your kid be sick is such a sucky feeling. You feel so effing helpless. But, at the same time, you know how to deal with it, even if you haven’t had to deal with so much of it in years. I was glad I could be there for Dallas and take care of him. More than that, though, I’m glad he’s not puking anymore.
Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all.
