Warning: This story contains bodily emissions that you may not want to read about. If that pie-eating scene in Stand By Me grossed you out, you’ll probably want to stop reading right now. Seriously, click away.
There are three words which should strike fear into the hearts of any parent: My tummy hurts. I heard them for the first time tonight and now know why.
First, a bit of background. Besh’s Zayde and Nonni are in town this weekend and, as any weekend with grandparents ends up, spoiling him to no end. The morning began with a trip to IHOP where he had pancakes, red syrup (as reported by his yellow shirt), and sausage. He was very happy.
After breakfast, I took him to his cousin’s birthday party where he had a car-cake (cupcake but in the shape of a car) and some water. We played. He was very happy.
Then I took him to lunch at Wendy’s. He didn’t eat any fries, which isn’t that uncommon. But he did have two chicken nuggets and he wanted a vanilla frosty. I agreed, mostly to make sure he stayed happy since it’s been a wonky couple of days for him. He bet me he could eat the whole thing (it was a small), and he did. Again, very happy.
We came home and he was sleepy, so I lay down with him in his bed and we both passed out. I woke up 30 minutes later. He slept for 4 hours. An amazing nap. I was very happy.
Woke him up, he came downstairs and cuddled with Sara a bit, then went peepee on the potty. We asked if he needed to poop since he hadn’t all day and his stomach looked a bit puffy–it had since breakfast we commented. But he said he didn’t need to, so I didn’t force it. He went and sat down at his table in the living room to drink some juice.
I was finishing up washing my own hands when I saw him walking to the bathroom, his hands on his tummy.
“I need to go poopoo,” he cried. ”That’s why my tummy hurts.”
Oh no.
He stepped into the bathroom and did his best oral impression of Mount Vesuvius. It went everywhere. His step-stool, the tile floor, my socks, his socks. He looked at it in shock, then decided to erupt again. This time it splashed onto the diaper genie, the baseboards, the wall, his jeans, and his shirt.
I managed to reach around the pool and lift him over to the toilet, where he proceeded to unload a few more times while Nonni and Zayde started laying down paper towels. I undressed him, sat him on the toilet, and the careful process of clean-up began. He seemed better, but his stomach was still a bit puffy.
I took him upstairs for a bath and all was well. Put him in pajamas. He said he didn’t want dinner; I didn’t disagree.
“Daddy”? he asked as I put his pajamas on. ”Can we watch Elf? That would make me happy.”
Like I’m going to say no to that. So we go in the theater, turn on Elf. I went to check some news on the computer and he ran over to me. Thinking he needed a cuddle, I picked him up. Then I heard it, the biological equivalent of a shotgun load getting pumped into the chamber.
Now, a predicament. I have a toddler on my shoulder and I’m perhaps a dozen steps from the bathroom. I need to get there quickly, but not so quickly so as to set off the vomit-bomb strapped to my chest. It’s a delicate equation to figure out.
It is also unsolvable.
Five steps from the bathroom, the bomb goes off. I see, smell, hear, and feel it. My face is, fortunately, turned an inch in the right direction or else my fifth sense would likely have gotten in on the party.
Now in the bathroom, he erupts a few more times into the toilet. I clean him and strip off my own shirt (my Super-Obama shirt now coated, that was a short honeymoon). Get him cleaned up and then have him sit and watch Elf with Zayde while I go down and shower.
Sara looks at me and says those six words you always want to hear from your wife.
“There’s vomit in your chest hair.”
I agreed and took a shower.
A quick call and a long shower later and the doctor has told us to give Besh Pedialyte or ice chips. She says it’s probably a stomach virus and there are some nasty ones going around that are pretty violent for about 12 hours. I did a quick trip to the store, got some Pedialyte and crackers and head back. He’s still watching Elf, which is good. I gave him a few sips of Pedialyte, which he promptly puts into the garbage bin I’ve lined with plastic bags (a small miracle). His stomach is still hurting, but he just wants to cuddle. So I let him lie on me and he falls asleep soon after (it was nearly 10 at this point).
So now there’s some laundry to do, and I’m not convinced this night is over.
Oh, and the doctor said that after the 12 hours of throwing up, there’s typically a few days of diarrhea.
Hmmm…maybe a trip to Barnes & Noble tomorrow is a bad idea.
