My son has had a bit of a stomach bug this past week, which led to his first experience with vomit. He took it well. More surprisingly, I took it well.
I hate vomiting more than I hate anything. Even the Jets. It literally makes me sick. Which is a problem, since that starts a vomit spiral from which there is no escape. But when my son threw up the other day, right in front of me, my first instinct wasn’t to throw up myself, or even to recoil. It was to help the little guy. I didn’t help him, my wife did, but that’s not the point. She just happened to be right next to him, so she took him to the bathroom to get cleaned up. Get off me.
I’ve done my fair share of coddling him and cleaning him up as he’s made his way through the week, which has been mouth-vomit free but butt-vomit filled. (I apologize for that sentence.) It’s also been a bit of a vacation for the kid. His special treatment – more TV than usual, the best food for his upset stomach, etc. – reminded me of the post I wrote last flu season, when I was the one who was sick and he didn’t lift a finger to help.
Sure, he was only two at the time, but still! Nothing makes being sick worse than being around – and having to take care of! – a kid who couldn’t care less. So I’ve resurrected my original rant.
Original Post: Sick and Wired