When I consider my life's accomplishments, there is one that stands above all others on a glistening porcelain pedestal: I have vomited but once in the past nine years and two months (to the day).
Longtime Francey Pantsers will recall that fateful night a year and a half ago, mere days before I hopped a plane to Franceland, when I broke my streak and subsequently sunk to the depths of despair in a worthless heap. I have since decided that my accomplishment still holds-- once in nine years is nothing to burp at.
One unfortunate side-effect of my relative inexperience in this regard, however, is that I had no idea how to help my beloved Dude when he bolted from bed at 6 a.m. yesterday morning and started emitting groans and other unfortunate sounds not fit for publication as he clutched the commode for dear life. "Should I pretend to be asleep?" I briefly wondered. Then our ketubah caught my eye. "Oh yeah. I suppose I promised to help him with these kinds of things. There it is-- in writing-- with my signature underneath."
I hefted myself from bed to help, but then had the stunning realization that I had not a clue what to do. Colds are easy: ply 'em with Jewish Penicillin (matzah ball soup) and an embarrassment of citrus, and then force them to drink their weight in fluids. How does one stop violent, constant vomiting, though? Dude requested Pepto Bismal, so I went off in search of it at the neighborhood gas station and then stopped at Whole Foods for a few other Healing Items. Oranges. Bread for toast. Kombucha (they didn't have Gatorade so I figured it was the next best thing).
When I got home Dude had taken up residence on the couch and looked 3000% miserable. I gave him a just-in-case garbage can and then poured him a dose of Pepto. I also surrounded him with water, mouthwash, paper towels and Chlorox disinfecting wipes. Just-in-case garbage can became absolutely-necessary garbage can as the Pepto that had just gone down came right back up. I felt like a terrible wife for cowering in my chair and closing my ears during any one of the dozens of times he heaved and heaved and heaved.
Poor baby, but I can't bring myself to come within three feet of that garbage can.
Nothing seemed to be helping, so I had to bring in the reserves: my mother-in-law. By the time she left, he was sitting up and talking in complete, audible sentences. Cured!
The lessons I learned yesterday, in no particular order:
-Mommies cure everything
-Wait six puke-free hours before trying to make a sickie put anything down his gullet
-Looking totally disgusted during your sickie's most vulnerable time doesn't really help
-If you must watch the Oscars with your sickie in the room, mute the commercials so he doesn't have to hear Arby's reuben advertisement for folks who would "drink Thousand-Island dressing through a straw"
Longtime Francey Pantsers will recall that fateful night a year and a half ago, mere days before I hopped a plane to Franceland, when I broke my streak and subsequently sunk to the depths of despair in a worthless heap. I have since decided that my accomplishment still holds-- once in nine years is nothing to burp at.
One unfortunate side-effect of my relative inexperience in this regard, however, is that I had no idea how to help my beloved Dude when he bolted from bed at 6 a.m. yesterday morning and started emitting groans and other unfortunate sounds not fit for publication as he clutched the commode for dear life. "Should I pretend to be asleep?" I briefly wondered. Then our ketubah caught my eye. "Oh yeah. I suppose I promised to help him with these kinds of things. There it is-- in writing-- with my signature underneath."
I hefted myself from bed to help, but then had the stunning realization that I had not a clue what to do. Colds are easy: ply 'em with Jewish Penicillin (matzah ball soup) and an embarrassment of citrus, and then force them to drink their weight in fluids. How does one stop violent, constant vomiting, though? Dude requested Pepto Bismal, so I went off in search of it at the neighborhood gas station and then stopped at Whole Foods for a few other Healing Items. Oranges. Bread for toast. Kombucha (they didn't have Gatorade so I figured it was the next best thing).
When I got home Dude had taken up residence on the couch and looked 3000% miserable. I gave him a just-in-case garbage can and then poured him a dose of Pepto. I also surrounded him with water, mouthwash, paper towels and Chlorox disinfecting wipes. Just-in-case garbage can became absolutely-necessary garbage can as the Pepto that had just gone down came right back up. I felt like a terrible wife for cowering in my chair and closing my ears during any one of the dozens of times he heaved and heaved and heaved.
Poor baby, but I can't bring myself to come within three feet of that garbage can.
Nothing seemed to be helping, so I had to bring in the reserves: my mother-in-law. By the time she left, he was sitting up and talking in complete, audible sentences. Cured!
The lessons I learned yesterday, in no particular order:
-Mommies cure everything
-Wait six puke-free hours before trying to make a sickie put anything down his gullet
-Looking totally disgusted during your sickie's most vulnerable time doesn't really help
-If you must watch the Oscars with your sickie in the room, mute the commercials so he doesn't have to hear Arby's reuben advertisement for folks who would "drink Thousand-Island dressing through a straw"
I'll admit that the "drink Thousand-Island dressing through a straw" comment makes *me* want to blow chunks, and I'm not even sick. Urgh.
ReplyDelete-Barb the French Bean
Hahaha, I second Barbara's comment. I hope the Dude is feeling better, and good for you for knowing to call in backup when it was too much to handle.
ReplyDelete