So much for that idea!

I've been wanting to post a recipe for the last few times...but food has been the last thing on our minds lately. And last night was no exception.
At roughly 1:45am a certain 6 year old let off a puke bomb in the bathroom; then proceeded to go back to bed as if he'd just gotten a drink or something.
It took me a few moments to leave my wonderful dreamland involving sunshine, Hugh Jackman and a bottle of sunscreen, to realize; Did I just hear someone get sick?
Usually when that happens there is more to follow, either by way of more coming out, a toilet flushing, sink running a voice calling out "I'm okay. I just puked."
No seriously, he does that. Big boy makes his way to the bathroom, does what he needs to do, knowing his momma has a weak stomach calls out; "I'm okay. I just puked." and goes right back to bed.
Not last night.
There was no warning, he, of all of us, had been the healthiest the longest. He even ate a great dinner, no hassle, no fuss.
We sat down for a family popcorn night of Winter Wipeout.
2am and I'm wondering to myself "what the??? Do I smell barf?????"
And that's when I knew Hugh wasn't there, that's exactly the moment I realized this was not a dream, I was about to step into, literally, my worst freakin' nightmare!!!!
Que Twilight Zone music.
I honestly debated: Should I wait for Rob? What time is it? What day is it?
Realizing he wouldn't be home for hours. Hours. (He was doing his paper route.)
That smell was pushing me over the limit NOW!
I grabbed my bandanna and reach around in the dark for the pot of vapor rub. I slathered up my nose and headed for the closet, I needed gloves before I could even look.
Oh God!
No. Really, that's about all you can say when faced with the sight of it.
Had this child been possessed by demons? My God!
(I am saying his name more out of pleading prayer then shock or surprise)
There is just no way I am going to make it through this. The bile is rising at the sight, I have not even really looked, I just see that sick pinkish/orange/yellow gore and my gag reflex is quivering.
Oh God, help me, if there's chunks...
If I were to name this event it would be Pukalots SplatterCox.

It was everywhere; Places I was not going to clean, I would make it out alive, there would be a news alert: Woman dies after reportedly puking herself to death...No she did not go on a binger or suffer from a deadly disease, she had a violent reaction to cleaning up after her son threw up.

If I blew, Oh for the love of the Lord, Rob was going to find hell had taken over his house.
I got my son up out of bed.
"You need to clean this up." I spoke trying not to breath.
He dutifully got up, looked around and said to me: "Where?"
You've got to be kidding me child! Where? I'll tell you where!
EVERYWHERE!
I rolled up the rugs and placed them in a basket, he brought the stench downstairs.
I mopped the floor and he cleaned the toilet, walls, cabinets, tub and door.
I made him do the chunks.
Don't judge me; I have a very weak stomach.
When I was a nanny, my girl got sick, I ran across the street to get the neighbor to help her.
Can't. Do. It. If I start, no, no I can't even go there.
I can handle babies.
With their poop up the back, puke all over the sheets, gag-eat-barf; but when they get to that age where smell and chunks are involved I can no longer deal.
Someday, some woman is going to thank me.
My son will be the cleanest puker ever, why?
Because he had to clean up after himself.
Seriously, think about that.
If you knew you were going to have to clean up your own mess, wouldn't you make darn sure the mess was as small and as contained as possible?
Wouldn't you fight back that urge until you were at least aiming distance from a sink/toilet/trash?
Because letting loose a spray of splatter-gore would mean you having felt gross enough to let it come out, now your having to clean it up.
For whatever reason he chose to blow chunks. There is no better "reality check" then to have to clean it up. Bet he's making a little note to self: Make it to the toilet.

My son is a puker. I admire that in him. He doesn't fight it, he just goes in takes care of it, cleanly for the most part.
I fight it. Even if it means feeling better 10 minutes later, I'd rather feel sick then feel that minute or two of loss. My daughter crys. She gets so upset with that loss of control that she crys.
Rob is somewhere in between bring it on and okay I guess I'll feel better.
Nobody likes to clean it up. And I think I can say that with complete confidence that I'm speaking for everybody when I say NO body likes to clean it up.

Oh, are you wondering how he's doing today?
He's playing hockey right next to me. He was a little bummed that he missed Pajama day at school with popcorn and purple pop for Pp day, until I reminded him we had pajama night and popcorn the night before that led to the splatter bomb/ middle of the night clean up.
No fever, nothing. Just the vague memory of watching his mother turn into a completely helpless woman, that is until it's time to bake cookies! ;)

Now as for that recipe I was talking about, I just can't post it at the end of something like this. That is gross. But I promise it's coming...the recipe that is.
For now go get yourself a can of coke you're gonna need it ;)