Hubby woke up Saturday night/Sunday morning to hear the boy half-choking on his own vomit, and let me tell you that while vomit never smells very nice, it's even more disgusting at 1:00 in the morning when you stumble into your son's room, still half-asleep, rush to the bed to check on your baby boy and realize you've stepped in warm, liquidy chunks of barf.
Hey, don't say I didn't warn with that title!
My poor little man...I truly never realized one person could throw up that much, that often, or in so many different colors. Honestly, he couldn't even keep water down, much less the pomegranate martini I suggested he try. It was actually red-colored Powerade, and contained the same sweetish smell when it came back up moments later. I was more than a little bit scared because the puking just wouldn't ease up, and he was paler than I ever thought someone could be while still alive. A fever arrived, followed quickly by diarrhea, then his legs were aching and in between all this he had the bucket nearby and a couple of hovering adults trying to comfort, but really not wanting to get too close because holy shi-i-i-t, I don't wanna catch that!
He started to feel a little bit better by Sunday night, but even toast was still making him gag. Then he woke up yesterday morning with a rash everywhere. Seriously? Off to the medical clinic we go, Archie comic in hand, and he is poked and prodded, and blood is drawn, he pees in a cup, and finally, somewhere around the 3rd hour we're there, we're told it's a viral/gastro thing and he needs lots of liquid and rest, but whatever he had, he's no longer contagious.
And now I'm going to check my Thesaurus to see if I've used every possible connotation for the "act of gushing forth one's stomach contents."
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