By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Western Channel
I have never suffered from morning sickness, mainly because I've never been pregnant but if what I experienced yesterday was anything like morning sickness, it's a wonder the world ever got populated.
I'm not sure if it was a virus, food poisoning, or the combination of hot mocha coffee and the cookies that had been stashed in the back of the suburban for a couple of months, but whatever it was, it was not pleasant.
I was finishing up my day of subbing and transporting kids to ballet, Girl Scouts, violin lessons and was headed home. Since our car is truly a "mobile" home, we long ago gave up on those cute little litter bags for the front seat and opted for a basket lined with a Wal-Mart plastic bag. A good choice considering what was about to transpire.
On the way home, I managed to make it to the first stop sign. That's when I made my first "deposit" into the plastic bag lined basket. The kids, in true Mama-can-handle-anything manner, began yelling.
I could do neither because a) hubby was playing poker with friends and I had forgotten to charge my cell phone and b) we were in traffic so there was no place to pull over. Fortunately the stop signs and the stop lights were coordinating with my need to deposit. With only three miles from home, I yelled for the nine-year-old to strip the beach towel cover from the backseat and pass it to me. She did, sending all the accumulated snack wrappers, empty cups, straws, and partially eaten cookies on to the seat the towel was there to protect. That was ok; throw-up took precedence over crumbs. Two miles to go. I can make it.
To their credit, as soon as they stopped gagging, they went into emergency rescue mode. "I'll get a cold wash cloth as soon as we get home" strategized the nine-year-old. "I'll get a bucket" from the practical five-year-old. I was so proud of them, green, but proud. We made it to the house without any further incidents.
As I was stripping and heading for the shower I yelled to the nine-year-old. "You have got to take over. Help your brother with his homework, then get him into the shower, see that he brushes his teeth. Turn off the TV at 8:30 and put him to bed." As soon as I hit the bed, she hit me with the cold wet washcloth and the five-year-old, true to his word, brought me a plastic bucket and placed it beside the bed.
I must say I was very proud of the nine-year-old. She rose to the occasion. Homework was finished. She tested the temperature of the shower amidst cries of "Don't look at me" from the five-year-old who, until a few months ago, thought all clothing was optional in the country. Her responsibilities to her brother accomplished, she proceeded to her room to do her homework, shower, and get ready for bed.
A few minutes later from the living room I heard "Cowboys to the rescue." The five-year-old appeared at the bedroom door in his black ballet t-shirt and ballet pants, wearing his black cowboy hat, his cap pistol buckled around his waist, a red bandana tied around his neck and a towel neatly folded over his arm. In his best imitation of a combined Paladin, The Virginian, and Cheyenne, he ambled over to my bed. He tucked he towel under my chin like a giant bib. As he turned to leave he said "Now you holler if you need anything, Ma'am."
Here I should tell you that the muscles you use to throw-up are the same muscles you use when you laugh. The last thing I wanted to do was "activate" those muscles again. No amount of visual imaging of cold icy wind on my face or snowflakes resting on my forehead could erase the picture of my cowboy-ballet-pistol-packing-waiter/doctor or his admonition to "Holler if you need me, ma'am." As soon as the door closed, I headed for the bathroom.
While there may not be any scientific evidence to substantiate this, I can offer my undisputed testimony that you can laugh and throw-up at the same time!