Because I don't think anyone who works for Child Protective Services reads my blog and because the child in question is not mine, I wanted to bring your attention to this comment which was left on yesterday's post:
When Kyle was two, Jason and I both came down with a horrible stomach flu. We were so sick that we never even changed his diaper the entire day! I was eight months pregnant with Neil to top it off. What a fun day that was. We just locked the doors and hoped for the best. Obviously, Kyle lived through the day. He probably ate dog food or something, because I sure don't remember getting up to fix him anything to eat!
It made me chuckle. And then laugh. And then guffaw some more. The child being discussed--the one who ran around in a soggy diaper and possibly survived on dog food--is my cousin. Kyle is now 21. He is alive and well. This is how I know that The Rock Star will be okay even though he basically took care of himself yesterday. At noon, when he asked me for a hot dog, I had to talk myself into it for a half hour. I considered giving him step by step instructions so that he could do it himself but there was a knife involved so I decided against it. Finally, I closed my eyes and held my breath while I pulled it out of the package and stuck it in the microwave. If smells could kill...
But seriously, Aunt Vicki, why didn't you call my mom or your mom or the plethora of other relatives who lived near you so that you could hurl in peace, without the help of a two and a half year old? 19 years later I'm feeling very sorry for you.
I also want to know, how, in the world, I didn't throw up a single solitary time when I was pregnant with The Rock Star. Seriously. If I didn't remember almost every second of giving birth to that kid, I wouldn't believe I'd ever actually been pregnant. Maybe I had a case of pseudocyesis. Maybe he's not even real. He could just be a figment of my imagination. Because the fact that I never chucked--not once--during pregnancy is just, well, honestly, it's impossible. I did put my head in the toilet at a Coco's and then laid on said Coco's bathroom floor but I never produced a bit of regurgitated food. Therefore, I was never pregnant.
Also, the fact that I didn't throw up at all between the summer of 1999 and the spring of 2003 is unimaginable. I'm either blocking something out of my memory or Point Loma Nazarene University was like the probiotic for stomach ailments.
So, this last time, I almost passed out. I stood up from the porcelain throne and the world spun uncontrollably. I saw starish like twinkles. I collided into the bathroom sink. I considered the emergency room and the blessed relief of an IV drip. But seriously, I'm much too cheap for that. Troy would likely have had to pry my lifeless fingers from the toilet seat before I'd let him take me to the ER on account of vomit. Then we'd just bypass the emergency room altogether and head straight for the morgue. Here's the thing. I almost passed out. I pull muscles. My lower back always hurts something awful. I lose, on average, about six pounds. I gain it all back in a New York minute, in case you were concerned. (How many of you are singing Don Henley now?) Generally speaking, I throw up for about six to eight hours and, in that amount of time, I typically puke between 18-30 times. Obviously, the last 15-27 times are nothing more than bile, stomach lining, bones from my toes--I don't know what. But I feel like that is excessive. I feel like that is not normal. I used to get some kind of stomach bug once or twice a year. Since having kids, it seems like it happens more often. I think I've had it three times this year and we still have two months to go.
This time, I tried eating ice chips but I just threw them back up. At the seven hour mark I was so dehydrated that I didn't care anymore. I poured myself a cup of green Gatorade. (I hate green Gatorade for the sheer fact that I always drank it when I had the stomach flu as a kid. Green Gatorade tastes like the stomach flu to me. It does.) I drank it in small sips, knowing that those small sips would be staring at me in approximately 15 minutes. But they never came back up. Granted, it was the seven hour mark so maybe I just got lucky. Or, is it possible that my stomach malfunctions and it can't get out of some kind of cycle of yakking? Is there something in green Gatorade that calmed it? Do any of you have any kind of stomach flu cure that I could try next time? Because, you know what, this is ridiculous. Oh, and hey, I wasn't totally cured when I drank the Gatorade. I just wasn't throwing up anymore. There were still, uh, other things going on which suggested that something was still wrong with my innards. I wouldn't be sharing that with all the Internet world except for the fact that I am desperate for some kind of home remedy/medical study for which I would be paid heftily for my services/miracle and I thought you might need all the facts. I'll do anything next time. I'll eat dirt. I'll do thirty push ups followed by eleven hundred crunches--because my stomach would probably feel as sore as it does when I've finished throwing up 25 times. I'll turn around eight times, throw tarragon over my shoulder, spit three times into a sippy cup, and then swallow a dime if you promise me that it will help.