Floored

Last night at dinner Zozer started acting funny. She wouldn't eat, and just wanted to be held. After dinner we bundled her up, strapped her in the car and drove home. She fussed a bit on the way, and was just generally not herself. Upon arrival, we got her coat, hat and gloves off her, and when I picked her up to carry her to her room, she felt like a little furnace. Uh oh.

We got down the hall only as far as the bathroom door when lunch (or what was left of it) came back up. And then down. Sweater, pants, etc. all in the descending path. She managed to keep herself almost perfectly clean, but Mommy was a stinky mess. (Question for other parents out there: why is it that children will inevitably wait until you're wearing your one and only pair of dry-clean-only pants to hurl all over you? Just curious.)

M, being the concerned father he is, and also knowing his limitations (i.e. if he sees/smells/thinks about someone else's vomit, he's likely to create his own contribution), immediately took care of dabbing the few spots that hit Hoot's head. Good man, M. I, meanwhile, got Zozer in the bathroom and stripped both of us down.

She responded as she always has after upchucking: "I feel much better now." Which is so her father's mode of operation when it comes to tossing his cookies. He's known both for his "clean hurls" and his ability to "blow & go." Granted, his recovery time between blow and go is lengthening with each passing year, but he's still a relatively spritely vomit recoverer.

After removing all traces of pukey clothing, I settled M and Zoe in The Big Purple Rocking Chair while I went out to clean up the mess. Blech. The entire time I cleaned I thought, "This is why men can't get pregnant." The mess would have more than doubled had M been forced to contend with it.

I got everything mopped up (and by everything I mean floor (both kitchen and hall), baseboards, walls, threshold between kitchen and hall, kitchen trashcan...apparently the child has not only inherited her father's "good puking" skills, but also her mother's world-record projectile vomiting ability) and headed back to relieve M of his comforting duties. Seriously, how is it that when she pukes, I have to clean it up while he gets to snuggle with her? So. Not. Fair.

We got her to bed and then M came back down the hallway and immediately commented on the smell that was left. Yeah, dude. Try cleaning it up. Anyway, due to his inability to ignore highly offensive odors (wuss), I had to go downstairs and dig out the giant jar-candle that makes the house smell like a Christmas tree lot. As if he were paying homage to hurl, he lit the candle and placed it right in the center of what moments before had been barf central. It burned there for hours, and was actually quite effective. Good call on the candle...I'll give him that.

Later, I was in the bathroom washing my face and brushing my teeth (or, rather, brushing my face and washing my teeth, as Daddy and I used to say) when he appeared in the door with a sheepish look on his face.

"Um. Yeah. I, uh, forgot the candle was in the hall..."

At this point I turned around and started shooting daggers with my eyes, as my mouth was full of foaming toothpaste.

"And I kicked it...and now the hall is sorta covered in green candle wax..."

This reminds me of the time he built a sturdy platform over the stairwell in our first home so I could paint the columns, and then within moments ran himself into it. He knocked himself silly and won a trip to the ER in the back of an ambulance with that, though, so the candle wax thing is much less serious. Relatively speaking.

With toothbrush in mouth, I managed to say, "You put the damn candle there yourself. And it gives off light. How could you not see it?" This was not said with a small amount of agitation, and I'm sure the image was only enhanced by the fact that I really was foaming at the mouth.

His response was that the kitchen light was on, which is really bright, and therefore obliviates the light produced by the lowly jar candle on the floor.

Yeah, I didn't buy it either.

So, for the second time in one night, I found myself on my hands and knees cleaning up the same damn patch of floor.

Silver lining: the original wood floor in the hall now has a lovely sheen to it, and is slick as ice, which makes slipper skating easy and fun. And it still smells like Christmas trees. 'Tis the season.