And the hits just keep on coming….

It started Saturday morning with an 8:00 am basketball game (yes, I said 8:00 am). I overslept and woke at 7:25. I had been up all night with three kids and a dog who all decided to sneak into my bed at 2:30 in the morning. Not to brag, but I had all three kids dressed and in the car at 7:35 and managed to stop for donuts before arriving at 7:55 in time for the tip-off.

I was disappointed in my son’s performance. He seemed distracted and played poorly. On the way home, I gave him a lecture on the importance of playing the game with the heart of a tiger and looking for opportunities to score. He listened politely and then threw-up three times in the back of my mini-van. Already feeling like the worst mother in the world, I pulled over and tried to clean him and the back seat without hurling myself.

I was impressed with his bravery. There were no tears, no whines, just a confident statement, “Boy, I feel better now”. He threw up six more times before the day was over and each time he said, “I’m okay mommy. My tummy is much better”.

The next morning, I’m sick. In contrast to my fearless son, I cry, call my mother, and beg my husband to sit next to me and tell me that I’m not going to die. I hate to throw-up. I know that no one really enjoys it, but some people are better than others. It is baffling to me how others will make themselves throw-up in order to feel better or stay thin. I would rather sell my soul than puke.

Although there are other areas where I succeed, throwing up will never be one of them. Now that the nausea has ended (for the most part) I can borrow a quote from my oldest and say with enthusiasm,

“Boy, I’m glad that’s over with!”

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