Well, it’s been some time since I last posted. I am fully, digitally cleansed (whatever the hell that means) and while I wish I had something profound to say about this 10 day de-tox, let’s be honest, life went on as usual. I still had work and school related duties that kept me tied to the virtual world, and on the home front, I was still left up to my eyeballs in baby bodily fluids and surrounded by the stresses of parenthood. That shit doesn’t go away just because I stop writing about it.
So at least my outlet is back. And I am in the final stages of my thesis 1st draft, so I can totally justify a return to the blogosphere.
Perhaps the most memorable occurrence since my blog hiatus was the Cart household’s bout with a gastro-intensinal virus otherwise known as swimming in baby vomit (and James and Ashley vomit).
As a preface, I must say that I am the worst, and I mean THE worst puker in the history of E-V-E-R. Like the Tonya Harding of vomit. I weep, and protest, and moan, and cry some more, and demand that people hold my hair back, and tell me I’m beautiful, and cradle me in their arms while I expel my day’s lunch into the porcelain throne. Yet another reason why James is the luckiest man of earth. I know you WISH you could snuggle a sweaty, smelly, shower-deprived, virus ridden person in your arms. Apparently, we can’t all be so blessed.
Fortunately, I got the sickness last. So both James and Sunny were on the mend when all attention had to be turned to tending to my needy ass.
As I lay moaning, and whining, and generally cursing the world in bed, James just looked at me and said, “You do realize that your 7-month old baby handled this with more grace than you?”
What can I say, I am a weak, pathetic soul when sick. Or my child is abnormally stoic. While I’d like to believe that I’m raising one truly strong-willed little person, history shows that it is probably the former.
Addison, however, was a champ when she was sick. An Olympic gastro-intestinal sufferer. She was such a happy, smiley, sweet little babe despite the evil, intestinal buggies attacking her bitty tummy. But baby puke. That shit is NO JOKE. Talk about projectile vomit, with literally no warning. We had mounds of dog towels balled up around the house due to the various land mines she’d planted, and we just had to rush to the closest sink/toilet/trash can when the expulsion would commence.
I think the only thing more pathetic than a sick child is a sick child’s parents. I, obviously, stood around weeping. Because that is clearly productive. And James ran around reading every parenting book and website imaginable, shouting various remedies, suggestions, and courses of actions in my general direction while I just waved my hands in the air like an idiot. We were awesome. Fortunately, I got my doctor on the phone, despite the fact that it was 8pm on New Year’s Eve and she eased our fears, gave us some advice, said to call if things worsened, and told me I needed to “Bitch be cool.” Of course, I’m paraphrasing, but it was exactly what I needed to chill the fuck out.
Best. Doctor. Ever.
So in conclusion, we rang in the New Year in a home filled with baby vomit soaked dog towels. Let’s just hope this shit isn’t some metaphor for the next decade, or I want my money back.
Happy Belated 2010 to all!