Monday, January 31, 2011

Projectile Pukies

Warning: This is a first time parent discussion of a sick baby. It's gross. Really gross. You probably don't want to read it. (Unless you've ever had to, or will have to, care for an ill infant...)

Last week Jax turned 1, and got his first stomach flu. If you are wondering how much fun it is to have a baby who channels exorcist style up-chuck*, the answer is: none... unless you're the spouse watching the other lucky parent be baptized in vomit.

There is something so sad and so absurdly funny about trying to plan your life around a baby who has been reduced solely to a random cookie tosser. How long can you hold him? What can you afford risking to wear? How many towels should you stack under him at night? Is double folding said towels really creating twice the amount of bile absorption, or should you discard both layers with each attempted stomach evacuation?

It is just so sad when your sweet baby suddenly smells more like he's been worshiping the porcelain god at some frat house rather than smelling like a parcel of angelic goodness soaked in unicorn tears of blissful joy while swaddled in the virgin linens of the fairies of light. I mean, how can a child who has had his diet completely reduced to a few minutes of nursing at a time ingest enough to produce a bathtub's worth of toxic waste?

Did I mention poo? I should bring that up. See, if your baby's "tummy" doesn't feel good, and there is barfing, it often means the sh*t is about to hit the fan. (And, because of the projectile nature of these issues, it just might). I mean, if you think your baby is impressive when he Ralph's across the room, just wait 'till you see what the other end can handle. I admit that since we EC with Jax, I get to *literally* see and feel the wrath of the intestinal track with more visual acuity than most, but I'm pretty sure no one could miss the Dante's Inferno of smells that would accompany even the most contained of said fecal explosions. I think it is entirely possible that my son has expelled the entire range of possible combination of road kill entrails decomposition gases whilst maintaining his vegetarian status.

In case our first fight with force migration of stomach contents wasn't exciting enough, the whole thing seemingly stopped for eight hours only to return with an obscene vengeance. You start to relax, you do things like start to get ready for bed in your room again, cuddling the child you only recently reclaimed from possession by the spirit of the Chunk Blower... only to have him channel said spirit all over your fresh clean nightgown, his pajamas, your sheets, your pillows, and, your sanity. No, dear reader, he did not just "lose his lunch," he eradicated in a way that makes the idea of Taco Le Bell's "fourthmeal" seem like a reasonable nutritional option.

Add to this the amazing feat of producing gallons of frothy green turdlets, and the hilarity of AGAIN mistakenly thinking your son is cured, letting him snitch a minuscule tidbit of black fondant from his penguin-themed cake (in case you were wondering, one micro gram of "black" food coloring can produce an entire night's worth of blue and aqua excitement), and you have a techni-color nightmare meant for the historic annals of parenting.

Apparently, you also have a Top 11 blog post for regurgitation. WIN!

* Top 11 Puke Terms used:
Cookie tossing
Stomach evacuation
Worshiping the porcelain god
Forced migration of stomach contents
Blow chunks
Lose your lunch

1 comment:

  1. I'm sure parents will have a special appreciation for this post, since I've heard humor is one of the most effective coping skills. But I, as a non-parent, also have a special appreciation, which may be best described as smugness.

    Just kidding. I'm glad our littlest penguin is feeling better. :)