There are certain things I will not do:

1. Pet, look at, admire, or in any way associate with amphibians.

2. Clean a grease trap.

3. Smell something my kids tell me to.

4. Eat meat from a can.



Other things, I am good with. I changed diapers for 6 consecutive years. No problem. Dog poop? Covered. Nasty mildewy unidentifiable things? Got it. Spiders? Eight legged memories.



One thing above all else, I will not handle. I have had a problem with it since I was a child. It borders on phobia, though phobias are irrational fears. And, in my very unbiased opinion, this is a very rational fear: vomit.

Dog vomit is borderline. After years with Maddie, I realized dog vomit was a fact of life, and could pretty much tolerate it. In fact, toward the end of her life, vomit was so regular, I would hear her preparing to puke, and would just throw my hands under her muzzle to catch it, so as to avoid mess.

Milk-fed baby vomit is acceptable. God knows, S brought up rivers of it. On me, on furniture, on dog, on carpet, on clothes, on just about anything you can imagine. Curdled milk is its own grossness, but it doesn't cross that border into partially digested human food.

When vomit happens, as it occasionally does, I scream for M. No matter what he was doing, or where, he must address the vomit issue immediately. With bleach, or the most powerful cleaner the surface will tolerate. And air freshener. And laundry. And bath for the vomiter. He has to do all of that. Immediately. Thoroughly. A whiff of vomit and I am done for. Bring me the bucket. I do not clean it, wipe it, hold other people's hair for them while they do it, or in any way contact vomit.
In fact, once in high school, a friend combined expired, unrefrigerated Long Island Ice Tea mix, cantaloupe, and clove cigarettes. I think it was the cloves that pushed her over the edge, but in any event, rummy cantaloupe wound up all over the floor. I have not eaten melon since then.

Sunday night, E begins crying that his tummy hurts. He's writhing and cramping on his bed. I console and comfort and snuggle until I hear that tell- tale churning in his stomach and throat. I'm half way out of the room by the time the vomit hits the floor. (Thank goodness we no longer have carpet in there.) M, vomit cleaner extraordinaire, swoops into the rescue. He's wiping, throwing away, toweling, spraying, and cleaning as I airdrop cleaning supplies. Finally, 45 minutes of the Oscar show later, M and I are back in bed, and E feels better all tucked into clean sheets. Two hours later, I am awoken by S running in saying his stomach hurts so bad. Warily, I bring in a bucket, tuck him in some blankets, and let him sleep on the floor. I am not even back in bed when I hear a grizzly sound:
the sound of a dog about to vomit. I try desperately to grab Clooney and take him into the bathroom, but with S on the floor, and the bucket, and the disorientation of the middle of the night, I have no chance. He barfs on the rug. M wearily gets out of bed and begins the cleaning ritual.
S, meanwhile is whimpering and suffering, so I carry him to his bed to sleep so that M can try to rest at least some before Monday. I lay down next to S and some indeterminable time later, he rushes out of bed. Fortunately, he is an old vomiting pro. He makes it to the bathroom, and bullseyes it into the toilet. Woohoo! I spend the rest of the night cuddling him, and we are all undisturbed until morning.
Then, yesterday. Yesterday, S managed to put down two un-iced cinnamon rolls. And some apple juice. Everyone, including the dog, was vomit free all day, which is good, because my vomit cleaner upper was at work, and I'd hate for him to have to come home to clean! But, just after 4 PM, just when I thought we were in the clear, I hear the worst sound from upstairs. I was just sitting at my computer, and I heard liquid hit the floor upstairs. Lots of it. Like some one turned on the hose. I bolt up the stairs, and the unmistakable scent of Apple Jacks hits me. Fortunately, S's vomit was only apple-jackey, because I was able to clean it up all by myself. I got it all wiped up and the floor scrubbed and the linens washed. Just in time for M to walk in.
"S puked in our room," I say.
Unbuttoning his cuffs, looking weary from a long Monday, he sighs, "I'll go clean it."
"I did it already." I am bursting with pride.
"Great. Sigh."
It's not like I accomplished a great feat. In fact, it wasn't that hard at all, because there was no stink. But I was still pretty full of myself. Sometimes overcoming a fear is more of a personal celebration. But M didn't look like he was ready to give me an award or anything.