It's Not Christmas Until Somebody Cries

I'm sitting at a Caribou, desperate for a functioning internet connection, and as I have now had several sips of my SkimMintConditionButYesIStillWantTheWhipPleaseCoffee, I am on my way to cranking out one fast and furious blog entry before going home, aka to World Wide Webless.

So Oliver has had no further nosebleeds to speak of, but we only had one night of vomit reprieve before he blew chunks again at 5am on Monday, in a Blomington hotel, where my family was celebrating my Dad's blank-i-eth birthday.  Puke #1 was well-positioned, in a large but tidy pile right on top of the Pack-N-Play mattress cover.  I was beginning to think that Oliver was learning the art of aiming, until puke #2 exploded less than 15 minutes after putting him into a newly-blanketed mattress.  This time:  Carpet.  3 Blankets.  Mattress cover.  Pajamas.  And, heaven help me, the mesh siding of the Pack-N-Play. 

As I tranpsported the heap of bedding across the floor to the bathroom, the mess just couldn't help but plop-plop-plop off the edges, leaving a grotesque trail along the carpet.  Before attempting to clean that up, I rinsed the bedding and pajamas in the tub- which wasn't draining.  Yep.  That's right, I needed to wipe out tub nine times before heading back to removing the little puke piles that christened the rest of the room.  And there I was, kneeling on the floor with a bar of hotel soap, a trash can, and washclothes.  I began to cry. 

"Honey, what's wrong?" Michael gently asked, as he held Oliver.

I continued to scrub, cry and mope, not answering him.

"Honey?  What's wrong?"  He asked again.

Seriously?

"Are you sad that Oliver's sick again?"

"No!" I said, falling apart.  "I'm sad for meeeeeee!" 

My selfish thoughts made me feel worse as I attempted to remove particles from the mesh siding.  I grabbed extra sheets from the spare bed, towels from the bathroom, and began to make up the Pack-N-Play again.  Oliver couldn't vomit again, he just couldn't- we had nothing else to cover him up with.  If he did puke, Oliver and I would have to go home, by ourselves, as Michael needed to go to work in the morning.  Still recovering from surgery, I ached with pain from lifting Oliver over and over.  The thought of packing everything up at 5:30 am made me want to cry more.

I remembered something one of my brother-in-laws said on Christmas Day:  "It's not Christmas until somebody cries."  How true, how true.  He was actually referring to the fact that his wife and I usually cry at some point during gift-opening with overwhelming generosity or sensitivy of a gift received (think photo projects from Oliver, a new Ipod Touch, last year there was an automatic garage door, you get the idea.)  But this particular night did not bring good tears, dear reader.  I. Was.  Fried.

Next evening: fine.  A day later:  Not fine.  Pukefest x3.  At least we were home, with unlimited access to our laundry machines and clean linens, and our own beds.  That was, knock on the knotty pine wood walls next to me as I deplete the first half of my coffee, the last we saw of the puke. 

Each night, though, when Ollie wakes up crying, we walk in with a hand out in trepidation lest it touch wet, our sniffers perched to detect that unmistakeable stomach-acidy smell.  At 11:58pm on New Year's Eve, Oliver let out a scream, and he cried and cried.  I trudged upstairs unamused, and walked in cautiously.  My hand patted the crib mattress, and the front of Ollie's PJs.  Phew,  dry.  Except for tears.  Oliver reached for me and climbed into my arms.  He sniffled, rested his head on my shoulder, and slept.  His arms draped around me in a hug as we rocked in the glider, and we held each other as 2010 crept into 2011.

Happy New Year.