picture from
www.dianneshelton.ca/landscape.htm
"A River Runs Through It" by Amber Dubois
When you're a Mom, a significant portion of your life revolves around bodily fluids.
This is true not only of the countless diapers you'll change before your little one
potty trains, but there is a lot to be said for the yardage of snot that your child
can procure during an instance of The First Fall Headcold or for the river of vomit
that courses through your sweet baby's GI Tract, to be released as said sweet baby
sees fit.
And thus, The Post About Snot and Vomit begins.
It was actually a chain of reactions. Charlotte, who has a known head cold and is
producing epic quantities of snot, awoke and vomited. Said vomit (she's a loud,
dramatic puker) woke Dad, who then woke Mom in order to obtain the location of the
precious and sacred temporal thermometer and the potential coordinates of the Infant
Tylenol. Upon waking and assessing the situation, Mom locates thermometer and hunts
down the elusive Tylenol (Diaper bag. Save time, check the diaper bag first.).
Temperatures are taken. Data points are collated and compared. Vomit is analyzed and
quantities are estimated. Discussions are had on the necessity of busting out Excel
to analyze all the data and the notion is promptly eschewed. After all,
we're not total dorks.
Ambient room temperature is discussed briefly. Baby is stripped and cooled, diaper is
checked for appropriate quantities of soilage--and then changed. Further temperatures
are taken, baby is assessed for listlessness and dehydration--negative. Options are
discussed, baby coos and growls normally. She begins attempting to eat her hands, which
both parents agree is a good sign--perfectly normal behavior. Mom's gut says warm
blanket + super warm fleece jammies + warm room + baby who is a hot sleeper = thermal
quantities in excess of baby's heat capacitors. Lacking sufficient heat sink, she vapor
locked. Plus, if we add in mucous drainage, well...who wouldn't spew?
Dad's not so sure, he's worried about his Itty Bitty. Mom can appreciate that concern
and wonders what she might be able to do to calm his fears. Mom Googles "Baby Vomit"
and reads symptom lists to Dad.
Baby continues her attempts to self-cannibalize. We need to buy her a box of baby
fingers. Apparently they're tasty like heck.
Dad worries. Mom rolls her eyes, but not so Dad can see. Mom likes that Dad worries
about his girl, but wonders what he thinks the doctor will say if she calls him and
says "No Doctor Noah, she doesn't have a fever. No, she's acting quite fine. No,
there's no green or blue or pink or red in her puke. It's pretty much just formula
and baby oatmeal and snot. Yeah, it was just the one instance, but boy howdy was
there a giant river of vomit!" (Mom also saw evidence of the river of vomit, and Mom
knows what all Moms know--it looks like more than it actually is. Many bodily fluids
go poorly estimated for quantity in light of the terror inducing quality OF said
bodily fluids. Vomit and blood both fall into this category.)
Mom knows what the esteemed doctor will say. He will say "Call me back if she acts
dehydrated and stops dirtying diapers." Mom knows this because a) Mom has some
medical background, b) Dad forgets that Peyton had One Night of Constant Vomit
when she was Charlotte's age and c) Mom has The Prized Maternal Instinct.
But, Mom loves Charlotte and Mom loves Dad. It touches Mom's mushy side that Dad
is so concerned for his Itty Bitty. So, Mom asks if Dad wants to go to Urgent
Care or The Hospital. Dad says no. Mom knows this has not assuaged his fear any
further and with a small sigh realizes that she'll be up all night, making
sure that both Charlotte and Dad are OK and that Dad gets sleep required for
work in the morning.
Then Peyton, the Not-So-Itty Bitty (NSIB) wakes up. And while there's no vomit
with the NSIB, Mom knows that this will be The Longest Night of Her Life. Wearily,
she opens her laptop and proceeds to write it all down for posterity.
Briefly, before posting her blog entry, Mom wonders why nobody gave a crap a few
days ago when Mom was the one vomiting. Nobody worried beyond whether it got
cleaned up.
Oh. Wait. That was a vodka hangover. Gotcha.
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Amber Dubois is the mother of two small girls who are the light of her
life, and the wife of one husband who is occasionally the bane of her
existence. In her free time (the little there is), she enjoys using
humor as a coping mechanism and replacement for binge chocolate
consumption.
