Tuesday, August 02, 2011

Hangtown Barfies sing this song, doo-dah... doo-dah...

God must have smiled when he gave me two barfy kids.

That's how I was going to start my post about my dramatic, puke-prone children.   I drove home last night from dropping them off at their grandparents', "writing" in my head all the way.  About Henry's melodrama.  About how they can work themselves to a frenzy ending in barf with little to no effort.  About how their ability to make themselves sick has no tie to an actual cause.  About how how unaffected I am by my own childrens' retching, how mothering has helped me recognize an act when I see one.

Then I woke up this morning with a splitting headache and a stomach that's shakier than our nation's financial future.  I feel awful.  And as I rolled over to E to tell him so, I noticed that's he's rockin' the same grayish quease that I am.

Well ain't that a sonofagun.

It was all I could do to blast through errands yesterday--dentist, school, Costco--before I had to load up the kids and get them up to Placerville for the week.  They're doing swim lessons and staying with Mimi and Papa.  I'm going to have a week of productivity and cross some things off my list before school starts.  I was tired and hurried all day, so I didn't pay much attention to Henry's headache.  He's been having them more often lately so I figured it was from playing video games all morning and shrugged it off.

When we stopped at the Vans outlet for new slip-ons for school, he seemed fine.  In hindsight I think this was more about new shoes than actually being fine.  It's amazing what strong health shopping will produce.  By the time we got to P-ville he was so worked up he was doing that whiny/angry pant/cry thing.  Lots of loud breathing and moaning and rolling around on the bench in the pool's dressing area.

As lessons were starting he was in his suit, but it was clear he wasn't going to make it.  Moments after I had that thought, he was hugging a giant grey school-issue trashcan and releasing the salami sandwich he'd had for lunch.  Great.  Now you should know this in and of itself doesn't mean he was really sick.  Both of my kids can cry and vomit on demand.  It's Oscar-worthy.  So really, at the moment I was convinced it was part of the show.  But I love him like crazy, so I held his clammy-wet body in my lap and stroked his hair while we watched Ad swim.

We finally got the boy some Tylenol and he took a grateful nap under a damp washcloth mask in his bed in the green room at Mimi's.  He ended up appearing to be fine and he ate a good dinner.  I hung around long enough to make sure he was okay before I headed down the hill.

I'm sure I will be fine too with some time and some meds.

Nothin' says summer like "I'm sending my kids to Hangtown for the week."
Today I'm thinking God's not smiling because I have those two barfy kids. It's because those barfy kids humble me all the time and prove that I have no freaking idea what I'm talking about.

No comments:

Post a Comment