The cherry-flavored fruit-snacks did her in.
They were the first thing to come up when she started barfing, and I was fascinated to find that even after several hours in her small stomach, they still retained their bright red hue and faux-cherry smell. She spewed this vivid mess all over the couch and then raced to the bathroom, leaving me with a choice: Should I follow her and comfort her? Or clean up the mess that the little ones were already racing over to investigate?
I cleaned up the mess and then congratulated the child for having produced such a spectacular hurl. Interestingly enough, that was the second time in less than a half-day that I’d scrubbed down that particular couch. The first scrubbing was necessitated by one of my more traditional couch activities. I have to say that the first scrubbing was done with more of a smile on my face.
The second scrubbing was done by only me, because the stb-ex was late coming home from work.
Later, cleaned up and re-ensconced on the couch, the barfing child managed to hold down a quarter-cup of water for about five minutes before dodging around her father, leaping over her siblings and making the mad dash to the bathroom. She almost made it.
The thing that slowed her down was that I was in the bathroom trying to use the facilities, an activity that was halted before it was even begun because of Lil’ Pukey McPukerson opening the door. I crossed my legs and once again made the decision: Help the sick child or corral the other curious children away from the mess.
You might think that the stb-ex would have assumed one of those duties. And yet, he did not, until I snapped at him to please pick up the baby before he gets into the mess for the love of god use your head and help me out man!
As soon as that mess was cleaned up and the sick child once again lounged limply on the couch, I began the nightly ritual of bathing little ones. With semi-naked babies cavorting, the washer grinding along merrily and a slightly-green child laying on the couch, the stb-ex stood up languidly, stretched, and announced that he was going to change out of his work clothes and use the bathroom.
I stopped washing one naked little person and allowed another naked little person briefly to run free. “Can’t it wait?” I asked. “I need help here.”
He sank back down on the couch with only a hint of petulance. “I guess. But I really need to use the bathroom.”
So do I, buddy, I thought glumly. I’ve needed to use the bathroom since about the time of the first puke but…and then he was gone, gone to spend his nightly twenty minutes doing whatever it is that men do when they use the bathroom.
Much later, after all the small people had bedded down for the night (and finally I could use the toilet), I continued the never-ending cycle of laundry. Puking creates a lot of laundry. Over the roar of the dryer I heard…coughing? Was it coughing? No. It was more puking. I walked past the open door of the stb-ex’s room (he was deeply engrossed in a computer game) and into my sick child’s room. Comfort, strip bedding, track down new bedding, clean, comfort, more cleaning, more comfort, more comfort, more comfort, always more comfort.
When I walked past his room again, he said, “What’s going on?” I barely had the heart to answer him civilly. I’m not sure that I did.
This is what bothers me the most from all of this painful and annoying evening: He gets to use the toilet when the urge strikes. I don’t. This has left me in an uncharacteristically foul mood.
This is male privilege. This is why I’m getting unmarried.
And this is why there’s no HNT today.
