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About 11 years ago I became a young widow with a 3 year old and a 15 month old. Those were very dark days . One day, however seems darker than the rest. My 3 year old, Brittany, complained bitterly about an upset tummy. So I did the diligent Mommy robot thing and said she "probably needed to poo-poo."
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We went into out bathroom and I noticed her shoe untied, so I got on my knees and bent over to tie it. She made this low rumbly kind of sound and well, she erupted. Her dinner had consisted of tomato soup, a glass of milk and french fries and had been in the hopper an hour or more before the blast.
Of course since I was on my knees with my head bent, she erupted on me. Vomit rolled down the neck of my shirt, the side of my face and a few streamers came down through my bangs. It was red, chunky and smelled of soured, puke milk. She was screaming and I had tears in my eyes and the smell was just unbelievable.
I did what all upstanding parents who have just been puked on do. I puked back, basically the same meal all over her shoes and legs.
And then I heaved a few times, just so I could pee in my pants-- nothing like a little childbirth enduced stress incontinence to add another element to this scene. My poor child bellowed " You've puked on me!!!! " and cried even louder. So who arrives to the rescue, but the baby brother Brian, in a panic himself because his mother and sister are shrieking and heaving.
He does what all little boys will do in a situation like this-- he runs to his Mommy. Except he runs through the red, chunky, smelly vomit on the vinyl floor in his little sock feet. Naturally he slips and falls in the puke. Now all of us are covered. Of course, he begins to wail and I take one look at him and I puke again. Soon, Brittany blows again, but this time on the bath rug. Nobody has made it to the toilet.
I try to come to my senses. After a brief surveillence of the area, I decide quick action must be taken. I slide back the shower door and turn on the water, strip my kids and me and get in the shower. They really scream then. I wash my hair, their hair, soap everybody up and rinse off and notice the water is filling up-- the chunks have stopped up the drain and are floating around us. I gross out, lean over the potty and puke and heave again. After I do that and turn off the water, the kids are somewhat calm.
I grab a towel from the bar and throw on the puke on the floor and then I drip my way across to the linen closet where I get a towel for every one and wrap the kids and myself up. Next I carry them into my bed and cover them up and dare them to move. I pad downstairs and retrieve the hefty trash bags, paper towels and clorox and clean up the mess. I didn't rescue the rug, the clothes or the puke towels. I bagged 'em.
Finally, I go into my room to put on a nice clean set of undies and a gown. Brittany raises her little head above the covers and makes that same rumbly sound. Yep, she pukes on the brother, the sheets, the coverlet and the floor. Worse yet she stands up and the other end cuts loose too.
Now there is crap everywhere and it smells worse than the puke. I am back at again with the trash bags, removed the chunks from the shower drain, some of which squishes under my finger nails, and am washing off those babies again. I heave about ever 30 seconds, but finally get every thing squared away.
I have completely lost my sense of humor. My stomach feels like the first infantry of army ants have played football in baseball spikes all over my internal organs. I look in the mirror and think I look a very pale rider.
I get the bed changed-- I chuck the crapped on sheets, but save the coverlet which is bagged to go to the laundry mat instead of my machine, so someone else can clean the chunks out of the machine. Exhausted, we all pile into bed and go to sleep after we put on the worst jammies we own and cover the floor with newspaper.
The world looked a little better in the morning until Little Brian tossed his cereal around mid morning. Around six that night my stomach started hurting and I puked and crapped all night. The trash can flu. Sitting on the pot crapping as I puked in the trash can, my children were crouched in the door watching me.