Last night, after a day of filled with self-pity and endless rounds of throat lozenges, I went to bed early in hopes of waking up with a bright and cheery disposition and a fever-less day.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to "Mom, mom!" being quietly whispered beside me. In my sleep-like fog, I was confused and thought it was my dead son trying to reach out and touch me. I woke up screaming, scaring not only myself, Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. but my very much alive son, Frac.
After realizing that he wasn't his brother's ghost and when everyone's heart rates resumed to the normal range, I asked what brought him to my bedroom on his tippy toes.
Turns out the little duffer wasn't feeling well. My mommy instincts kicked into high gear and I pried my arse out of my warm cozy bed and went to get him some medicine. The stomach flu is going around in his school and he was the newest victim.
After I told him I loved him (from a distance of course, I don't want his nasty bugs playing tag with the critters torturing me) I handed over a bucket with instructions to hurl in it if he feels he can't make it to the bathroom in time. And then I crawled into my bed, thanking the heavens above that I just have strep throat and not the flu.
A half an hour later, I was again awakened by urgent whisperings of "MOM!!" Turns out, he vomited, (he made it to the bathroom) and he just wanted to share the news with me. He's thoughtful that way. I congratulated him, gave him a glass of water and sent him back to bed. Meanwhile, I'm feeling like a Mack truck just ran me down.
This cycle continued twice more last night, and each time he hurled, he shared the news like the proud nine year old boy he was. I tried to restrain my annoyance and pretended to be a good mother each time.
And then, I woke up to "MOM!" again whispered beside me.
"For Pete's sake, Frac, I'm sick too. Get your own damn glass of water this time," I snarled sleepily at my sickly son.
"No, mom, I puked but I didn't make it to the bathroom this time."
"Well, that's why I gave you a bucket. Did you use it?"
"No," he replied, sorrowfully.
"Why not? Did you lose it?" I asked, annoyed by the prospect of having to change his sheets.
"No, I just didn't want to DIRTY it."
Imagine the teeth marks on my tongue as I bit down so that I didn't hurl a stream of invective at him.
"Where exactly did you toss your cookies then, Frac?" I asked, picturing goo mixed in with a down comforter.
"Oh, I didn't want to make more work for you so I just leaned over from the top bunk and puked over the rail."
That's right, dear internet. He didn't want to make more work for his sick and fevered mother by dirtying the pail that sat beside him.
So instead, he leaned over the rail on his bed, five feet up in the air, and spewed forth like a geyser.
I've got splattered puke everywhere. Walls, underside of the bed, his book case across the freaking room, the bottom bunk's bedding, his dresser etc...If I wasn't so damn sick and disgusted, I may have been impressed with the spectacular size of splatter.
Turns out though, I'm FREAKING sick, and scrubbing vomit off every damn surface in my boy's room, as he is happily munching on toast and watching cartoons, just kind of kills any scientific fascination I may have harboured.
But it's all worth it, right? Because one day, when I'm old and feeble and he has to take care of me, I'm gonna shit my pants big time. And as he's plugging his nose and grimacing and wishing I'd just hurry up and kick it, I'm gonna look at him and smile and say "Remember the time...."
We mother's never forget.