Friday, September 10, 2004

"Dad, I feel like I'm gonna throw up..."

He didn't eat any snack, said his tummy hurt. He seemed sniffly and tired during the chess game he asked for. (He's getting better at chess, by the way; I'd say he's almost on the verge of being a player). He didn't eat lunch, just sipped some ginger ale.

I took him upstairs for his nap, and made his bed, which I had unmade that morning, when he woke up wet. After I made his bed, he hopped in, and I looked for the Pooh stories under the bed. He hopped out again almost immediately and stood in the middle of the carpeted room.

"Dad, I feel like I'm gonna throw up..."

Instantly I acted, hoping to get him to the bathroom. "Let's get you--"

Out came the vomit. Brown liquid. Onto the carpet. A puddle as big as a dinner plate.

Instantly I acted, the caring, soothing dad: "Poor boy," I said, moving slowly and gently, "We're going to help you feel better."

I thought that, as a precaution, it might be good to get him into the bathroom anyway. Just in case.

"Maybe we should--"

Out came the next wave of vomit. Bigger than the first. The puddle on the carpet was now as big as a dinner plate and a salad plate.

Instantly I acted, "Get in the bathroom!" I shouted, grabbing him by his arm and pulling him along. The Quick Reaction Force downstairs (his mom), left the detainee (the baby girl) strapped in to her chair with lunch in front of her, and rolled out instantly to engage in our support.

The QRF arrived just in time to see the boy blow big, chunky brown things into the bathtub. I sure was glad that hadn't gotten on the carpet. The QRF comforted the boy while I snapped out: "I'd better clean that mess up, pronto," and went downstairs to grab some rags and a spray bottle of cleaning fluid.

I peeked at the detainee, and saw that she seemed happy to eat lunch for the time being.

Upstairs the QRF ministered to the boy while I sprayed the carpet and used lots of mechanical energy to scrub up the mess. I tossed the used rags one by one into a bucket. Thankfully, the vomit did not stink, so far as I noticed. There is something to be said for having distressed sinuses. I used the last several towels to get the carpet dry, scrubbing so hard that I felt the heat from the friction.

I tried to clean up the bathrub but decided to finish that part of the job later. Those chunks sure looked like Boston baked beans. But we'd had those a full two night ago. Made no sense. "Son, Did you eat any beans today?"


"Maybe when we weren't looking?"

"No, Dad."


I went downstairs and tossed the rags in the laundry machine, setting it on Tough Scrub, a 51-minute cycle.

According to the QRF: "The things he threw up were raisins. They discolor, and bloat, so they look like beans."

"You did a good job," she said, "An awful lot of work."

Thanks, Honey. I love you too.
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