Fourth of July--Fail

What says “Fourth of July” better than diarrhea and vomit? Right? Right?

Our two-year old woke up this morning with some sort of stomach bug. Poor baby. We didn’t figure out there was a problem until we got to the park and noticed him waddling around, awkwardly.

Which in Keaton-translation means “I’ve got a big, nasty, undeniably smelly, diaper situation”.

And because mamas are so lucky like this, he insisted on me changing his diaper. (I guess my husband has tricked our son into falsely assuming his fatherly-incompetence in many of the areas of personal hygiene). How do men do that?

As I changed him by the car, I kept looking toward the road behind me thinking there had to be some sort of dead animal nearby. The smell was nothing like I had smelled from my son before. It was a smell that usually oozes from a five-day old mushed possum or armadillo or something equally grotesque.

And of course the liquid mess had already covered the inside of his shorts. And of course I had no other shorts. And of course, we had just arrived at the park when this happened. And Keaton hadn’t even had any time to play.

So, there was no saying, “It’s time to go, boys!” So, he played in his diaper. I’m sure we looked like, “those people” as cars drove by and saw a diaper-clad two-year old at the park with no pants.

After several more diarrhea diapers, which luckily happened in the convenience of our home, with a bathtub accessible, we headed over to my mother-in-law’s house. (Which by-the-way is about to be our house because we are building again and our current house has sold. So we have to get out in a few weeks).

On the way, Keaton was being extra moody. He was whining and kind of whimpering. Then, suddenly he vomited. And vomited. And vomited. About four times. From his mouth, his nose, and I think maybe even his eyeballs. Okay, not his eyeballs.

But, believe me, it was a LOT of throw-up. And it was chunky. Hey, I’m trying to help you understand just what we were dealing with. And maybe trying to get you to feel an ounce of my pain.

We completed the smelly-twenty minute drive and then tried to get Keaton out of his seat, while trying to make as small of a mess as possible.

Which was impossible. I got Keaton out without too much trouble. But when I pulled his seat out, chunky vomit splashed out on both my legs.

Thank goodness he’s my child. If the puke had belonged to anyone else, well besides he or his older brother, I just might have died.

Or frantically attempted to be hosed off in a treatment facility for radioactive waste exposure.

When we got home, I also got the fun job of cleaning the truck of the puke that was covering the seat, some of the carpet, and the seatbelt. Because I guess being a mom entails having some kind of magical cleaning power that my husband does not possess.

It’s strange. I’m pretty sure I’m not even that good at cleaning.

No matter how much resolve and Febreze I sprayed on, the smell would not come out of that seatbelt. I wonder how much a new one would cost?

So, Keaton and I ended up staying home from the fireworks festivities. Luckily he didn’t realize he was missing anything. And thank goodness we had a small Fourth of July celebration at our house the night before and so he got to enjoy some fireworks and fun.

I got Keaton to bed early, since it was just he and I in the house. I did a quick house-clean, and then spent the rest of the evening drinking coffee and browsing Pinterest.

And then I was awoken at 1:15 am with horrible stomach pains--and other issues. Keaton passed his bug along to me.

Of course.

Was cleaning the puke-covered child, the chunky, liquid filled car-seat, and about six road-kill smelling diarrhea diapers not enough?

Looking at what I just typed, it’s no wonder I caught the bug as well. I really need to invest in a hazmat suit.

And never take it off. Ever.