on being sick...

A coupla weeks ago, at the close of our morning rush to get everyone out the door on time, RyBread stumbled to the couch, curled up in mortified pain, and moaned, "I think I'm gonna throw up..."

Twenty minutes later, she did.

Dang. The Barfs. I would change 2897 diapers 17 times each if I never had to deal with throw-up again. Luckily I don't have a particularly sensitive gag reflex, but the Barfs are the one thing to truly try that part of me.

Okay, so really it wasn't so bad; she made the bucket every time. I played my part well, I thought, present for all but one of the barfs, holding her hair back, rubbing her back, and handing her a clean, warm wash cloth when she was all done to clean up the yucks dribbling off her chin. That's a nice mommy, right?

It reminded me, though, of a time when I didn't really make the nice mommy. Shocker. Poor Morgs was the victim this time, and it had been a long day. She had felt terrible all day, with a fever and everything, but she hadn't actually thrown up.

She had languished most of the day up in my room so I could check on her, but I moved her down to the TV at dinner so I could make something for the rest of us to eat. See? I make dinner sometimes.

I assumed, of course, that I was safe sending her down to the brand new couch and the brand new carpet, since she just had a fever and felt yucky in general, right? Silly me. I was minutes from placing dinner on the table when I heard the 5 words that can strike fear into the heart of any mother: "Mom! I'm gonna throw up!!"

What do I do in these brief moments before the inevitable mess? Rush down with a bucket and warm wash cloth in hand, ready to assist and calm the sick child? Pause for a split-second to sympathize with the poor little pre-schooler on the verge of experiencing the yuckiest thing about mortal life? No. Not me.

"Run for the tile, Morgs! Run for the tile!!"

That's right. Save the carpet. Save the couch.

Forget the kid.

All's fair in love and barf.