Peacefully dead asleep. It is the middle of the night. Gabriel was feeling sort of off last night; he's snuggled down in bed next to me. Suddenly and without warning, I'm jarred awake by the warm, chunky wetness spewing from Gabriel. In my hair. On my pillow. On my ear. On my neck. On my face. All over. Bleary eyed, I rush him to the bathroom. He vomits twice more on the bathroom floor before we get to the toilet. By then he's all puked out.
Sad and bewildered and pale and hot and covered in ick. I strip him down naked. Mop him up as best I can. His skin looks so translucent and delicate, I don't want to scrub him too hard. I put him in a fresh pull-up, sit him on the couch wrapped in a clean blanket and holding an empty bowl, in case something else decides to come up. If you need to throw up make sure you use the bowl. I set about the business of cleaning up so that we can get back to bed. Strip the bed, shove everything into the wash. I don't care about instructions, everything's getting washed on hot. The mattress is wet. It's after 1am and I can't deal with this. After a cursory and undoubtedly inefficient scrubbing of the area, I flip and rotate the mattress so the offending corner is upside-down by my feet. Fresh sheets. Pull out the spare comforter. The pillows are in the wash. Make the bed as best I can. But my hair. My face. My clothes. If I don't need a shower, I'm not sure who does. I tear off my clothes on the way to the shower.
I'm on my hands and knees scrubbing puke in my chonies at 1:30 on a Thursday morning.
Finally, I shower. I get into fresh clothes.
It has been awhile since I left Gabriel bundled on the couch.
In the living room, he is curled into a ball under his blankie, in nothing but training pants, his face is carefully over the bowl I left him with. He is shivering. He is passed out. He is burning up.
I put him into fresh pajamas. I wake him. Does he need to throw up again? Does he need to use the potty? Absolutely, when he is this sick, he is sleeping with me, so I scoop him up and take him back to my room. Can he have some water?
Throughout the rest of the night when he stirs I'm instantly alert.
Do you need to throw-up?
Please don't throw up in bed.
We wake up this morning. He is fine. He's acting fine. He's in a good mood. He has some toast. He looks fine.
I take his temperature. No fever. I ask him how he feels.
Does he want to go to school today?
Is he sure that he feels okay?
He doesn't have a fever.
Did I dream last night?
I decide to take him to school. I drop him off at 7:30, as usual. He is fine.
The preschool director calls at 8:15. Just 45 minutes after I last saw him, looking perfectly healthy.
You need to come get Gabriel. He is NOT okay.
By the time I get to my car and get to his school (I don't drive to work), it is 9:30. He is passed out in the corner in the large playroom, obviously suffering. Obviously sick. His fever is high. His cheeks are flushed. His breath hot. His fingers icy.
I wouldn't have left him if I thought he was this sick.
I know. Hopefully we'll see you guys Monday?
We get home.
He is resting.
Did you know that Mr. Halloween is actually Steenky Bee? She's sending me a Spider-Man costume, which will hopefully make this whole day seem like....less.