Fire Hose of Atrocities

Forget about storing a baseball bat next to your bed so you can beat down an intruder.  Get an umbrella.

A few days ago I look up because I can sense a presence at the door.   Sure enough, there is Sage.  Being all creepy in the dark.

“Hi, Sage.  What’s up?”

“Mommy, my throat hurts.”

“Oh no!  Come here.”

She approaches my side of the bed.

“Have you been coughing?  Does it hurt when you co—”

Cut off.  Mid sentence.

BWWAAAAAAAAAAA.  VOMIT.  Fire hose of atrocities.  BWWAAAAAAAAAAAAA.  PUKE.

Bloody hell, what is going on??

BWWAAAAAAAAAAA. BARF.

Will it ever end?  Help me, baby Jesus!

BWWAAAAAAAAAAA.  HURL.

Geez.  I thought she said her throat hurt.  Not ‘hey mom, I’m about to puke all over the side of your bed.’

I don’t do vomit.  I can’t handle it.  I will hold my puke in at all costs, no matter how much I know letting it out will ‘make me feel better’.

I survey the damage.  Gross.  It’s fairly contained, thank goodness.  But, eww.

And then I notice the real damage…she puked on my book!  MY BOOK!  The book that I am reading.  My beloved Hunger Games book.  Mockingjay.  Katniss.  Peeta.  Gale.  Katniss and Gale.  Gale and Katniss.  Katniss and Peeta.  Peeta and Katniss.  Who oh who will you choose, Katniss?  District 13?  District 13 is still inhabited?  Why did you wait forever to help out the other districts.  Damn you, Capitol, and your brutality and your sick, sick Hunger Games.  Peeta?  You’ve been hijacked.  And you’re a mutt of your former self.  PUKE.  On my book.  Son of a.

“Oh my gosh!  Sage!  Are you okay?  Gregg?  Gregg??  Did you catch this?  Sage, do you need to throw up anymore?”

Gregg volunteers to clean it up.  Good man.  He runs Sage to the bathroom, holds her hair, and she pukes some more.  We are off to a good start today.  At least I’m awake and alert.

If I had had an umbrella next to the bed, I could have opened it up and protected my book.  The vomit would have hit the umbrella and slid down the side into a little pile a safe distance from my precious book.  But I don’t have an umbrella next to my bed.  My book is collateral damage.  Gale…  Peeta…  Katniss…

But, really.  Who really needs a baseball bat next to their bed?  How often is your house going to get broken into?  Once.  Maybe twice.  Get a dog.  That should help.  And how often is your kid going to be puking his or her guts out?  Countless times throughout his or her childhood.  And an umbrella will protect your book.