Enough with the puke already!

It would seem I need to create a whole category here for vomit related posts.
That's right. It happened again tonight.
We were at Panda Express, the favorite of both my children. I was waiting at the table with Enzo when, out of nowhere, he started the tell tale gagging cough.
This time I caught it in my bare hands. Lucky it wasn't more than a handful.
There I stood with my prize an no one around to help but my Zizza. "Run and tell Pop (who was in line) that Baby Brother threw up" I instructed.
Meanwhile, I shook my hands off into the near by garbage can. I had wipes but they were deep in my bag and no way was I reaching my wretched on hands in there to find them. At any other restaurant there would be a stack of napkins somewhere near by, not Panda. They are stingy with the napkins there. They give you one per person with your order and that's it. If you want more you have to go back to the counter and ask. We always ask for a few extras up front but since we hadn't made it that far yet, I was napkin less.
Zizza came back from relaying my message, the Mr's response was to look at me and shrug. Helpful. (In his defense I don't think he knew my fingers were dripping with stomach acid)
Just then, a Panda employee came out to wipe down tables, ah salvation!
"Excuse me" I said. "can I get a, a...something?" (as the boy begins to wretch again)
She was back in a flash with a whole roll of paper towels off which she had kindly ripped a fistful for my immediate use.
She left me the roll in case I needed it and I sat there holding my hands in the air away from my body and as far from my nose as possible until the Mr could relieve me of my child supervision duties so I could wash them five times over in the bathroom.
All the while Zizza begged "Can I have apple juice? I would like apple juice for a drink, are we getting apple juice" and I said to her "Do I look like I can buy you apple juice? If you want juice you need to talk to Pop, right now my only job is to sit here not touching anything" and she would say "But can I have some apple juice?" We had this exchange at least five times.
In case you wondered, yes, I was able to eat my food when I got it. I have what you might call an iron stomach(when I'm not pregnant).
Enzo, taking after his sister, seemed to feel just fine after his gastronomic demonstration and proceeded to eat three plates full (You know the little ones for egg rolls and such) of steamed rice.
He never gave up trying to snitch orange chicken off my plate either. I had to pay close attention the whole time. If I let my guard down, even for a second, I'd turn back to find a plump little hand sneaking a fork onto my plate.
Seriously folks, what is the deal with this? People who puke are supposed to be sick. They are not supposed to want orange chicken five minutes after the fact, not unless they're preggers any way.
I pray that we wont have any of these surprise vomit attacks during our coming drive. I think we'd better take a bucket along just in case though.

A little bit of yuck

What is it about vomit that makes such great blog fodder?
Every time one of my kids starts blowing chunks I have the essay written out in my head by the time I'm finished cleaning it up. I don't always post these jewels, but I always, always, compose them.
It's coping mechanism, I think. If I can think of a way spin the situation into something funny, or even just mildly entertaining, even as I'm dealing with the gross reality it becomes easier to bear.
That being said...

Monday morning dawned bright and clear. It was a day we all look forward to, Dog Grooming day.
On grooming days The Mr drops the pup at the dog wash in the morning before going in to work.
The rest of us get up, dress and follow them in to town. We run errands, meet up with our Mr for lunch and then pick up a clean fluffy dog. These are good days.
Monday morning Zizza came down and laid in my bed while I styled my hair. She got up and went into the toilet/tub portion of the bathroom. I heard choking. "You ok babe?" I called to her. "I'm going to throw up" was the reply I both expected and got. I opened the door and found her sitting on the toilet rather than leaning over it. This concerned me. I couldn't yank her off and turn her around. If her tummy's upset and threatening spillage on either end, the bottom end is the one I want on the toilet. I would have to find an alternate receptacle for the spew.
I flung open the cabinet door, hoping against hope that the cleaning bucket was in there. It wasn't I knew it wasn't but I'd looked anyway on the chance I was wrong.
I didn't find the bucket I was seeking but I did find salvation from mopping vomit off my floor. There, in the back of the cabinet were the hair clippers, clippers stored in a rubbermaid container. Another gagging noise erupted from the throat of my four year old and I plucked that rubbermaid from it's cozy corner and dumped the contents none too gently on the floor.
I was just in time.
Thing is, after all that drama with the bucket she hardly even puked. I actually wondered if she was just testing herself to see if she could do it.
She was chipper as could be once she finished, ate breakfast, ran around, made me fear for my sanity should she take a fancy to faking sick.
So, I took her out that day even in spite of the vomiting, and we had a lovely time.

A pile of vomit and a shirtless mother

Tuesday morning found me bustling about getting ready for my joy school lesson. Finally at about 9:00, thirty minutes before the children were due to arrive, I decided it was high time I got myself and my child ready.
I deemed that not having the cups and napkins on the counter ready for snack time would be much less of a problem for me than not having hair done when kids started showing up, so I started in that direction. The need for a few minutes quality time with my flat iron was amplified my the fact that I'd gone to bed on wet hair the night before.
Baby Girl was lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs where she'd been since I told her she could not have a Dora yogurt drink until she finished her cereal, which she was "too full to eat".
I decided to tackle her tresses first and called her to come up stairs. Her response was "I'm too tired to do that" So I walked down and hefted her up the stairs vowing with each step that she'd have a nap as soon as the other children left my home.
"I'm going to throw up" she said, as we were reaching the top of the stairs. This is not a statement to be taken lightly. I cupped my hand beneath her chin and began to run.
A step or two later life cereal began to spew forth.
That stuff just kept on coming!
She finally stopped, and I took her the rest of the way to the bathroom and began to dispose of my handful. "I'll just use my pitcher" she says as she begins to toss even more of her cookies into the bath pitcher.
I got my hands clean, removed my puked up shirt and got her in the bath. then, as I was debating whether to clean up the floor first or call the joy school parents and tell them not to come, the door bell rang.
Tiny Boy had been playing far away from the up-chuck... until now. There I stood, in my bra, hair standing on end, baby veering toward a puddle of disgust, and a guest at the door.
I was fortunate enough to have a basket of clean laundry close at hand. I scooped up the wee child and held him over one arm while I dug through the basket of what seemed to be nothing but childrenswear until I produced the one and only adult shirt in the lot which I donned, somehow, on my way down the stairs.
"I hope it's ok that we're early" says the mother at the door.