Easy Peasy Queasy

I live in fear of puke. I know it’s silly, but I do. I once went 10 years without throwing up at all. I have yet to vomit from drinking too much, but only because when I get that horrible queasy feeling I deep breathe – for hours if I have to – until the food begins to move through my system. There’s nothing worse than the cold sweats, the shaking, and the certainty that you are about to taste your last meal again, with a side of bile. I’ll do just about anything to avoid it.

So it’s no surprise I am a total wimp when it comes to other people puking. Dear friends, I wish I could say I'd be glad to hold your hair back and rub your back should you ever find yourself in this situation, but the reality is that I will probably be halfway down the block before you even start heaving. I mean, I once switched subway cars because I thought someone looked a little too green for my comfort. And the Canuck knows that he can torture me by pretending that he’s about to hurl. He does it all the time. Oh, we have good times, don’t we?

Ever since I got pregnant, and maybe even before then, I dreaded the day that my child would puke. Would she throw up all over me? Would I want to run away instead of comforting her? Would I be able to summon the inner fortitude to clean it up? I crossed my fingers that when it finally happened, the Canuck would take pity on me and expunge the evidence before I even got a whiff.

As I mentioned, the unimaginable happened when Muffin had her virus (fortunately, I was not within spewing distance). And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. I was happily surprised to find that my first instinct wasn’t to bolt but to reassure her that everything was ok. Not that she needed my comfort – she just nonchalantly popped the binky back in her mouth and went about her Elmo-watching business. And although I smelled phantom puke for hours after I mopped it up, really the clean-up was well within the boundaries of stuff I can handle. As someone commented on that entry, I consider myself initiated.

Like the Girl Scouts, motherhood should have badges that signify notable accomplishments. Getting pooped and peed on? Check. First public tantrum? Been there. Inaugural vomit? I’d wear that badge with pride.