Last night, shortly after midnight, my son gets sick. All. Over. His bed. It was a mess of volcanic proportions. The traumatic effects of the aftermath are such that I am going to be seeking out therapy. It is as if the horrific images have been permanently etched in my brain and the putrid smells irrevocably embedded into the sensory preceptors of my olfactory bulb. Seriously. I need help.
It has been nearly six hours and I am still trying to cope with the laundry (stain cycle, high soil setting and extra rinse), which I have graciously refrained from photographing for you. Cause really, who needs to see that? We're talking double-size bedsheets, pillow covers, duvet, mattress protector (best invention ever!), duvet covers and even the pillows. I have air purifier #1 running in his room and air purifier #2 on full blast in the lower level of the house. But if I had my druthers, I would rather burn the entire house down. And even then I am sure I will still be haunted by the disturbing sight of my son's partially digested dinner spewed across his bed and the resulting noxious fumes.
As a mother, I am fully aware that these types of events will happen periodically throughout my children's lives and I have dealt with plenty of such 'outbursts' already. More often than not, I have no problem coping with these types of situations. Yet, never have I been so overwhelmed by what I saw, what I smelled and what I had to clean up. I am pretty certain that, had this happened in a science lab, alarms would be going off signaling the required use of a hazmat suit.
I guess I should be grateful that my son is one tough cookie.