Frankly There Isn't Anything More Disgusting ...

... than V.W.O.W.

That is ... Vomit Without Warning.

He didn't look sick at all. In fact, he was playing with the crayons at the Rainforest Cafe, and laughing with his sisters from the minute we walked in the door. He was drinking apple juice. He was eating his grilled cheese sandwiches. He was smiling.

But he became cranky rather quickly. He stopped eating. He started whining. His nose, which was already rather runny, became a fountain. He reached for me. He wailed for mommy. I did what I never do during mealtime ... I picked him up.

Grady immediately stopped crying. He was warm. He clearly had a fever. He turned around, faced me, and used my sweater as a tissue just before he laid his head down on my shoulder.

At that point I guess I should have seen it coming. I mean, it IS Murphy's Law that when you're wearing a white tank top and a brand new sweater from Banana Republic (that you thankfully got on sale during Black Friday), it's ONLY logical that you're going to get puked on. Without warning of course.

No gurgling sound to give me a heads up. No hiccup or tummy growing to let me know in advance that he'd be blowing chunks of kernel corn and partially regurgitated blueberries. Who had any idea that the fluorescent red slime would immediately cover my sweater, my pants, my purse, and go straight down my white tank top and into my bra.

I did what any self-respecting mother of three, who is more concerned about saving her sweater and tank top than cleaning up the rest of the vomit that is covering her sick son from head to toe would do ... I called for a rag, shed that sweater, lifted my tank top, and in plain view began pulling the chunks of gross-ness out of my bra. I even barked for some soda water ... to blot.

I then called out, "Check please".

Five minutes later we were in the car, rushing to get home. Because the worst part of it was about to begin... the smell of drying vomit on the lapel of my sweater that I had to breathe in for the twenty-five minute drive home.


There is a silver lining in all this disgusting-ness. The white tank top is already clean (thank you bleach), my sweater looks like it just may survive (we'll know as soon as the hand wash cycle is completed), and it's probably only a 24-hour bug and he'll be good as new tomorrow.

Oh yeah, and at least Grady doesn't have pink eye ... like me. Again.