Spew City - By Calm Blue Ocean
Before I start, I probably should put a warning here – that if you don’t like reading about spew, you should stop reading now.
Firstly, I’d like to say that in general, my darling hubby is a smart man. He’s a self-employed sparky, is good at maths and fixing broken things, knows lots of stuff about lots of stuff, and is a great person to have on your table at a quiz night.
However – as seems to be the case with most men (I have discovered, through speaking with friends & reading He Did What? Wednesdays), he quite often is lacking in the common sense department. And he most definitely would’ve failed if there was a subject at school called “How to be helpful in urgent situations.”
Case in point:
Recently, my darling daughter went through a stage where she would wolf down her tea, then scull a bottle of milk & then shortly after projectile vomit it all back up again as a result of being a little piggy.
So one night, she had done the scoffing thing & was playing happily when all of a sudden she stood up, walked over to me (why is it ALWAYS me???), grizzled for a split second & then proceeded to shower me with partly digested dinner & curdled milk. In the split second that she grizzled my Mummy brain had been alerted to the fact that she was probably about to chuck and, as is the natural reaction, I cupped my hands in front of her mouth.
So there I was, sitting on the lounge, holding a cupful of spew in my hands while the rest trickled down my legs and onto the carpet. I look up, wondering why my darling husband wasn’t coming to my aid and find him still sitting on the couch, where he had watched the event unfold, looking at me with his eyebrows raised as if to say “well that was a surprise!”. Yes, that’s right, just sitting there. Looking at me. Holding baby spew in my cupped hands. Doing NOTHING.
At this point I believe I screeched “Get me a GODDAMN TOWEL!!!!!” – which seemed to startle him into motion, but not a quick motion, as the situation called for, No Siree, he proceeded to move at fricking snails pace to the linen closet where he took an eternity to find the pile of spew towels that I place front & centre in the linen closet so they are always handy(yes, we have a specific pile of spew towels in our household, such is the frequency that we clean up spew) and then dawdle back to the lounge room.
By this stage I am on the verge of going postal at his lackadaisical manner, whilst trying not to inhale the foul stench radiating from the contents of my hands when he strolls over to me, and drapes the towel OVER my cupped hands. OVER my cupped hands.
At this point, I’d like you to take your hands, cup them in front of you, and pretend you’re holding a pool of vomit in them. Now consider just how helpful it would be to have someone drape a towel OVER the top of your hands. That’s right people, a towel draped OVER the spew is completely FUCKING USELESS!!!
I slowly raised my glare up to meet his eyes, and given the fury emanating from them, I am quite surprised he did not spontaneously combust at the instant our eyes met. Thankfully, after another eternity, he realised that perhaps his actions weren’t well thought through and lifted the towel off of my hands and held it underneath so that I could tip the offending contents onto it.
Why thank you darling, I will present you with your medal later. Or not.
So tell me, is your hubby a super-hero when it comes to dealing with vomit, or does he sit there like a shocked spectator waiting to see what’s going to happen next?
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The lovely Fi is the Calm Blue Blogger behind Calm Blue Ocean. She's a 30-something year old girl with 2 beautiful children & a hard-working, self-employed husband.
She confesses to eating badly, yelling a lot, caring too much and swearing like a two dollar hooker. She's a total control freak and makes awesome cakes.
She's also smokin' hawt and if it wasn't for a button that had feet in it, she'd be plastered all over my sidebar.
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