February is my least favorite month. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because February is always so damn cold and dreary. Maybe it’s because February tries so hard to be different with its floating leap day. I don’t know when my disgust of February started, but I do know that I am starting to see a pattern developing. Ponder this: Yesterday I could have told you that the last time Karis threw a puke party was February 15, 2009. Did you notice how I specified “yesterday”?

I am about to tell you way too much information. The following story contains almost every bodily excretion possible. Read further at your own risk – no one will blame you if you turn around now and leave.

Around 5 o’clock this morning Karis came into my room and said, “Mama, my stomach hurts.”

I immediately went in to denial mode and said, “Want to come snuggle?” She wiggled in to bed beside me, and a record breaking 30 seconds later, she began vomiting all over me, my bed, and my dignity.

I rushed her into the bathroom and tried to aim her over the toilet. My uterus decided this seemed like a perfect time to start hemorrhaging, and when my uterus decides something, there is no changing its mind. Here’s the part where I officially start to give you way too much information. In a valiant attempt at saving my brand new, comfy pajama bottoms, I steadied Karis with one hand and whipped my pants down with the other. I couldn’t reach a towel or toilet paper, so I hung my ass over the side of the tub and called Jesse over for vomit aiming duty so I could clean myself up. (Isn’t that a beautiful mental image? I realize that by disclosing this particular story to you, you may never look at me the same way again.)

Just as Jesse comes over, Karis looks up at me and gasps. “Ah! Mama, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m okay,” I assured her, “Let’s both get cleaned up!”

I righted myself at the speed of light, and as Jesse stripped Karis down for a shower, I stripped the vomit soaked sheets off our bed. As Jesse washed chunks out of Karis’s hair, I washed chunks out of our carpet. We were a team! A vomit cleaning duo. As I was putting fresh sheets on the bed while Jesse dried Karis off, I was counting every one of my blessings that I wasn’t a single mother. Mad respect for all you single parents out there!!!

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Oh. Did you think the story was over? Not at all. If today were a movie, the part you just read would be the opening credits.

I failed to set up this scene. I never mentioned the fact that the day before, a contractor had removed most of the drywall and insulation from the outer facing wall of our bedroom. The beams were still soaking wet from our ice dam adventure, so we have to leave the walls open for a few days, with a noisy fan blowing on them.

I also failed to mention that we had flooring contractors scheduled to come later that day to replace our living room carpet and put hard wood in our basement.

I made a little bed for Karis on our floor. She happily snuggled in to it and went to sleep. I tried to go back to sleep too, but my mind was racing, going over all the stuff I had to move to get ready for the flooring people. Karis puked three more times throughout the morning, and at the happy hour of 8:00AM the phone rang. It was the flooring guys, telling me they’d be there in 30 minutes. THREE HOURS EARLY.

Long about this time Jesse started turning green and ashy. “I don’t feel so great…” He moaned. Sigh. The happy half of the vomit cleaning duo was about to become a single mother to two sick kids AND a sick man-baby. I rumaged in my mental closet and pulled out my Super Woman cape. It wasn’t even dusty! I gave it a good shake, put it on, and went to face the day.

I am way too tired to go in to much detail about the twelve hours between 9:00AM and 9:00PM, just know this: There was much running up and down stairs, vomiting, pants pooping, baby crying, contractor arguing, snot wiping, moaning, cramping, cleaning cleaning cleaning, AND to add insult to injury, I tweaked my left quadricep and could barely walk for several hours.

Just as I put the kids to sleep, Jesse asked me to run to the store for some Ginger Ale to help settle his stomach. He had spent the day horking into the toilet bowl loudly enough to alarm passing motorists. He was feeble and exhausted, having nearly blacked out from one of his vomiting bouts. He never does the whole vomiting thing half way. Once he gets going, there’s no stopping him. Add to that his annoying refusal of all medical advice and you have …well, you have Jesse – I’m too tired to come up with anything clever.

I dragged myself to the grocery store. I stumbled in through the automatic doors and schlepped towards the bananas. That’s when it happened. That’s when I split in two. One minute I was Super Woman, searching out just the right bunch of bananas, and the next thing I knew, I was staring at my weaker self standing beside me.

She was crying. crying right there between the bananas and the green seedless grapes. She looked at me, weary and defeated. She took a step toward me, as if she wanted a hug, or some form of support. I lurched backwards, pulling my cape out from under her battered shoe. I gave her a stern look, as if to say, we don’t have time for this! and I left her. I left her standing there in the produce section, tears of exhaustion streaming down her cheeks, smelling of dried vomit and despair.

She’ll find her way home, I’m sure. She’ll probably join me in the shower, as the hot water pounds against the back of my aching neck. I’ll give her a hug. An unspoken sorry for abandoning you. I’ll let her cry, even. But just in the shower – that’s it!

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