Spewage

It has been many months since the spit-up phase. And truthfully, I never got it as bad as my wife did, bless her heart. I recall visiting Dad in the hospital, and within moments of our arrival with the twins in tow, Jack hosted an impromptu wet T-shirt contest in which my lovely wife was the sole contestant, and consequently, the winner. The prize? The loss of dignity and a trip to the car for a change of clothes. Dad laughed so hard that he would have surely wet himself had it not been for the catheter, and that may have been the last time I saw him so happy. Thanks, Jack. Sorry, honey.

But now the hurling fairy has paid us a visit. The twins just can't seem to keep anything down. There is no fever, and they seem to be fine otherwise. They have plenty of energy. They talk and play. Then they hurl and cry. This is our first encounter with spewage, which is far worse than spit-up. It requires much more cleaning, and we are quickly running out of towels. The wife is seeking advice from every mother she knows on the best way to remove spewage from carpets, couches, and crotches. And the worst part is, I myself was just treated to a lap full of chunky Pedialyte. Eww.

I do find it curious that our children can get away with things that I never could and somehow become even more loveable for it. After covering the wife (and the cat) in regurgitated milk, Jack gets cuddled and hugged while the wife glows like a harvest moon. A small part of her is happy when they get sick, because they like to be held and comforted, which plays to her maternal instincts quite well. If I had food poisoning AND the flu and was throwing up blood, the wife would throw me a towel and the car keys and say, "Clean up your mess before you go to the doctor, please."

It's hard to watch those little ones heave and wretch. You feel so sorry for them, and so helpless at the same time. I would gladly do the hurling for them if I could. I'm practically an expert after years of honing my craft with a bottle of whiskey on an otherwise empty belly. At one point in my single life, I actually looked forward to my morning spewing, as I knew that I would actually feel better after getting it out of the way. But those little ones... Poor little angels. They don't deserve this. So it's off to the doctor we go, with our fingers crossed, as we thank the Lord for leather seats and rubber floormats. Wish us luck!