By Heather O.
In the Spirit of FMH poop chronicles (and this time the link goes to the stories, I think!) I venture into the vomit chronicles. Yes, since poop has pretty much been covered, let’s continue with a different bodily function theme, shall we? And in interest of full disclosure, if you have a weak stomach, please, don’t continue reading this post. Read the one about cupcakes instead. (i.e. “you’re such a good mom”. See link on side bar.)
As already been discussed, despite the fact that I only have 1 child, I have been pregnant more than once. And I am not the dainty kind of pregnant gal who says, “Oh, the nausea was terrible–I actually had to throw up once!” Nope, I’m the one who knows where every single bathroom is on every single floor in the building where I work because I have barfed in every single one. I’m the one who threw up the Sacrament, almost bowling over a deacon in my frantic efforts not to spew on the pew. I have thrown up into trash cans, parking lots, and airsick bags aplenty. And FYI, if you want to clear an airplane aisle wicked fast, just hold a full barf bag straight out in front of you and say, “Excuse me, but I REALLY need to get to the bathroom.” It’s like an ambulance going down main street. Everybody immediately moves to the right. And in this particular case, they were well to move quickly, because I didn’t quite make it to the miniature lavatory. It took 3 warm wet towels and assistance from the flight attendant to get everything cleaned up.
But I have a story that tops even spewing on my shoes outside an airplane bathroom. I was driving home, small child in the back, and felt that all too familiar feeling. I had just gone grocery shopping, and I thought I could get home before the barf-a-rama began. Sadly, I was mistaken. I upchucked my lunch while driving, and got it all over myself. And I mean, all over myself. So, I finish throwing up, and I’m kind of crying, snotting, and hiccuping all at the same time, horrified that this is happening to me. I pull into the garage, gingerly unstrap my small child so as to not scumify him, hobble into the house, where I promptly throw up again, and feebly begin the process of cleaning up. Then I start hearing some very sad, very plaintative crying coming from the garage, the last place I could remember seeing my very small child. I walk over to the garage, but the location of my son is not immediately apparant. I look a little closer, and realize that in the pursuit of a ball, the child is stuck under the car, pleading for help. So I unstick him, and of course, he is covered with axle grease, or oil, or whatever that sludge is that collects under cars. Then I am subsequently covered with the same stuff, because my sobbing child threw his arms around me when I dragged him out from under the vehicle.
So here we are, mother and child, covered in sticky black goo and colorful, stinking vomit, and a car full of groceries to unload. I did what any Mormon woman in my situation would do. I called a girlfriend in tears, just to hear somebody say, “Yeah, that’s pretty bad.” Then I called my husband, and told him it would be a good idea if he came home a little early that night. I also think I let the groceries sit there until my cousin unloaded them for me, because I’m not really sure how the groceries got in the fridge, I just know I didn’t put them there. I think the smell and sight of food were just a little bit unbearable to me at that moment.
So there you have it, my grossest story to date. If you have a similar story, please share. I’ll just make sure I read your comments after I’ve put away my groceries.
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