Being sick. It is definitely one of those things that is dreaded, and in my case, sometimes welcome. Dreaded of course, because who wants to be sick? If you do, you are sick yourself. In your head. And welcome because when I am sick seems to be the ONLY time in my life that I am able to take a vacation from LIFE. I force myself to rest, and I force myself to sleep. It's crazy that there have been times in my life where I have wished for a broken arm or leg, only to be able to sleep, in a hospital bed, and have everything brought to me. This coming from someone who broke her shoulder and collarbone; believe me when I say I know how much that shit hurts. Maybe I have the mental sickness.
Spending all that time lying in bed gives you a lot of time to think. And one of my thought threads led me to think about all the times I have had to clean up barf in my life. Yes, this post is about barf. If this grosses you out the door at all, please, stop reading. But if you are interested in reading a funny story about barf and barfing, please continue. WARNING: I might use the word 'chunks'.
Back when I was a a douchy 17-year-old, I somehow acquired a job as a nanny for three small children. I KNOW RIGHT? What the hell were these people thinking? Not only was I very young for the job, but I dressed like a punk. They must have been desperate. I couldn't help thinking that there was something very wrong with their children if they wanted to hire me.
My job duties consisted of being at their house for 6:30 in the morning and working until 6:30 at night. I made three meals a day, and I tidied up and did the laundry. I brought the kids to and from the bus stop everyday, and I took them to the park when the weather was particularily nice. The kids were alright kids, they listened to me and that was good. Of course being a 6-year-old, a 4-year-old and an 18 month old, I probably seemed like I was a grandmother to them at the time.
Anyway, I promised this post was about puke, and it is. Let me first say that I cant STAND puke. If there is anyone out there who is not bothered by it, you are a better person than myself. I will clean it up for you if I love you, but you owe me your life and the life of your firstborn son after that. I am not kidding.
So one day, after picking up the 4-year-old at the bus stop from his half day at school, I took him home and fed him and the baby lunch. Lunch consisted of beans and hard-boiled eggs. I know, that combo would make anyone barf right? Because you know where this story is going. About an hour after lunch, that poor little guy came up to me and said he was not feeling well. I stooped down to his level and brushed the hair off his forehead. I asked him what was wrong. He answered with, "I just feel siiiiiiiiIIIIICCCKKK!". Well, ok. I told him to go and sit on the couch and get cozy and I would come in and snuggle with him to make him feel better. And that's when it all happened. He violently unswallowed everything that he had eaten that day. His entire stomach contents, laid out there for all to see, on the hallway rug. Oh god. I began to panic. I looked around frantically for an adult to come over and clean it up. Shit!! That was me. I remember thinking to myself, "I can't do this. I am going to barf myself. I can't do this. Why can't he clean it UUUUUUPPPP??!!".
I asked him if he was going to spew again. He said he didn't know. I wanted to cry. I would look at the mess by my feet and my head would swim. My eyes would blur and I would lose focus with reality. And then it started to smell. Has anyone projectiled yet? I had no IDEA how I was going to clean this up, preferrably in the easiest and quickest manner. And then a 17-year-old light bulb went off in my head. I told the little one to go and lie down on the couch and wait for me. I opened the front door as wide as it would go to get some air in there because honestly people, my eyes were pouring from trying to keep up with my gag reflex. Then, I went to the kitchen and found my tool of choice to clean that shit up. A soup spoon. You heard me. My brilliant plan was to scoop the barf up and place it into a plastic bag. No fuss right? Oh you know I am wrong.
I stooped down real low over that mound of oral diarhea and examined it. All while holding my breath of course. His food had not properly digested in the hour that it had been in his stomach, and I could still make out what was egg and what was bean. Only it was all nicely encased in a sour smelling slime bucket of despair. Oh god. Okay, so here it goes. I scoop up the first spoonful of chunks. The spoon seems to be working fine. Only, the carpet is soft and pliable and my hand is plunging into the vomit the deeper I push into the carpet. Oh well. I have committed, I am doing this whether I want to or not. Every few seconds I would drop the spoon into the protein spill and run for the door to breathe in some fresh air. Holding my hand away from me like a claw because of the glistening stomach gloss that has encased it.
I was able to clean up that pile of mama bird regurgitate. Without puking. And I was proud of myself, I have to say. Later on that week when all the kids had the flu I was a military commander on puke patrol, asking every few minutes if anyone needed to recycle, and marching them to a toilet when they said yes. There were no more puke disasters on my watch. Except for when the baby projectiled a day's worth of sour milk (that I did not give her, I am smarter than that) into my face and hair....
But I think you might have had enough for one day. Did I say that this was a funny story about puke? I may have meant to write the word disgusting.
