Ok, remember yesterday’s post? Where I said, and I quote, “Max seems to have been spared…so far” – remember that? Yeah.
Tonight we were all having dinner with my grandparents. Today is their 62nd wedding anniversary, and my parents, the boys, and I all went to celebrate it with them. With Chinese food, because how better to celebrate…anything, really?
We were gathered around the table, listening to stories of Grandma and Grandpa’s wedding day, when I glanced over at Max. His plate of sesame chicken sat in front of him, untouched. Max LOVES sesame chicken. I motioned at him with my chopsticks, urging him to eat, already. He shook his head and disappeared under the table. In a moment, I felt his hand on my knee. Because my sons seem to be turning out like children who are raised by wolves, this was his method of approaching me to tell me, “Mama, my stomach hurts.”
Oh dear. Oh no oh no oh please please no.
“Really, honey? Where?”
He patted pretty much the whole of his abdomen, indicating a wide-ranging ache.
Oh no oh no…but then I already thought that.
Ok, fine. Max went back to his seat, where he proceeded to not eat dinner. Nor drink sparkling cider. When I saw him ignore his slice of cake, I sighed and mentally steeled myself for a long night.
After dinner I took the boys home and hustled them into bed. Max’s progress was somewhat hampered by the fact that his stomach hurt, and OH, DID I MENTION? THAT HIS STOMACH HURT?
There’s nothing you can do, really, at that point. I mean, he’s gonna throw up or he won’t. It’s a waiting game. So I got him in bed, gave him a basin to throw up in, and went back downstairs with a decidedly heavy heart.
Mere minutes later Tre yelled down the stairs, “MAMA! I heard Max throwing up.”
Ok, fine. I started the sprint up the stairs, to hear Max calling out the very. last. words. I wanted to hear.
“Mama? I’m sorry, I couldn’t aim.”
As in aim for the basin.
Not only did he hit his bed, he also leaned over to get the area between his bed and night table. So the bed, the table, the wall, the carpet, the book under his bed, and oh yes, this was my favorite, inside the heating vent; all of it was…anointed.
The poor little guy was miserable. I cleaned him up and tucked him into my bed. Then I went back to clean up his room. Raphael (who shares Max’s room) watched this with great interest.
“Whatcha doin’, Mama? Did Mats frow up? Ah sink ah will frow up! OH NO, GIMME WATER!”
“Honey, you’re not going to throw up. Go to sleep.”
“Ok.” (short pause) “Can I go play wif Tre?”
“No, Raphi. Go to sleep.” I went back to scrubbing the carpet.
“Ok. Ah sink ah will FROW UP!”
Eventually the room was clean, Raphael went to sleep, Max even went to sleep, and I convinced Tre that the fact that his stomach DID NOT hurt was a pretty good indicator that he was not, in fact, about to throw up. Tre has an absolute HORROR of throwing up. Tonight will be spent tending to Max, who (if he follows in Raphael's footsteps) should throw up roughly seven million times tonight. Then in a few days he'll be well...and I'll start throwing up. Then...I dunno...the cat?
You know, some people in this life get stretch limos. Others get stretch illnesses. GUESS WHICH ONE I GET?