Cleaning up vomit must be one of the worst jobs a parent has to undertake within the normal gamut of parental experience.
I have literally just hit the anti bacterial hand wash to try and rid myself of that horrible tangy, catch-you-in-the-back-of-the-throat odour that seems to hang around you for hours afterwards after you have come into intimate contact with kiddius vomitus.
Our eldest has just chundered / technicolour yawned his way down every step of his bunk bed. Great coughing hiccups of bile, slimy chicken, chocolate, pork scratchings, lemon tart and lasagna (don’t ask; it’s been a long day). Not his usual diet I have to say but we took ourselves off to Warwick this morning to sample both its restaurants and its Saturday market. This stomach eruption should in no way be seen as a gourmet review. It is, I hope, just a reaction to the day’s rather rich eating.
Because as a parent, when one of your offspring decides to blow chunks, you inevitably experience that gnawing, nagging fear that the household has been hit by a stomach bug that is going to work it’s way around every single one of you and see you, the parent, mopping up yet more vomit before the night is through whilst vomiting huge spicy carroty-bits yourself.
However, the little ‘un seems fine. Sleeping soundly, breathing calm. Which is no mean feat in a room that smells like Jimi Hendrix’s pillow.
I, however, feel very queasy but I am putting that down to my recent close encounter with my son’s expelled stomach lining that I have just poured down the toilet.
Bunk beds, for those of you that are thinking of investing in them for your kids, are not great. Yes, they save you space, but (and I am speaking from past experience here) when both occupants are ill you inevitably end up with a sick sandwich. The double decker chunder if you will. Clearing up ground vomit whilst being rained upon by air launched vomit is not a great milestone in any parent’s career.
Today’s encounter with hot-vom has been mild in comparison.
I have scraped off the carpet. Rubbed down the bunk bed ladder. Polished the child proof gate that divides my youngest from the upper level of the bunk bed kingdom. I have done my best to check over all nearby toys for collateral splashing and vegetable soup staining.
All seems as clean as I can make it.
The room still smells like a bulimic’s handbag but both boys are now breathing peacefully and are sound asleep.
I’m fervently praying for a dry morning.
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how can something have me wretching and laughing all at the same time? Excellent article, and a very good argument for never buying bunkbeds if ever I heard one!
Ah I’ve spent many a night with the bunk bed ‘sick sandwich’ as you so eloquently put it! Great, funny, post.
Yep, been there, done that.
Of course, the force of projectile vomiting from the top bunk times by the effects of gravity equals a massive impact velocity as it hits the floor. The resulting splatter effect ensures that it’s not just the floor that needs cleaning! Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton!
Heather: thank you for your kind words – do hope your retching didn’t require an additional clean-up operation!
MrsLJHall: thank you. Thank God we can laugh about it afterwards, eh?
Single Dad’s Diary: the immutable laws of physics have a lot to answer for!
Ah yuk, one of the very worst aspects of being a parent. Funnily enough the youngest of my three kids never missed the toilet bowl, the eldest however…technicolour yawned the ceiling. Gross. Very funny piece x