Apparently he's not done.
Let's get the icky out of the way. My son is still puke-tastic. He went the entire day yesterday without giving so much as a hint of that. Then his mother came home - she told him it was dinner time - and he threw up on the kitchen floor. I shouldn't be as pathetically shallow to somehow still think that him throwing up was about me - in particular my cooking - but I still though it. And why not considering yesterday I made some weird Cuban beans and rice thing (which was appropriately a Communist-grey color) and my very-hungry daughter shoveled some into her mouth before panicking about who had made it. She actually held her mouth open and worriedly asked who made it before daring to swallow any. I told her that her mother did. At which point she quickly started chewing and smiling about how tasty it was. She then added a veneer of insult by gushing about how she was excited to make love-cards for Love Mommy Day the next day. A mere few moments earlier she had claimed it was called Love Daddy Day. Dude - I'm sitting two feet from you.
Anyhoo - my son didn't eat but cheered up. We chalked it down to that odd thing that kids do wherein you officially declare them fit and healthy (usually so that you can do something you've been planning on doing for some time) and then they immediately throw up or poo on something. Fast forward to just after one in the morning and he had become angry that I'd left the room and was lying alone in my daughter's room. He begged me to come rejoin everyone in the Big Big Bed, so I held him till he went back to sleep. Which must have lasted for maybe ten minutes because I was quickly aware that he was rolling around angrily in bed making God-awful guttural noises. Imagine the old lady from The Goonies (the one who looked like Les Dawson in a dress) burping in Welsh. it was quite a lot like that. Heroically I just let him get on with it all. I figured if he was going to blow then that's just how it was. My wife spent a lot of this time shining her watch-light over him to see if he looked upset or worried. Hopefully he wasn't delirious at this point lest he think he was being attacked by angler fish.
Some time around 3.15am he did one of those bile-shifting burps that you could hear ripping up from the sphincter in his stomach all the way up his esophagus to his epiglottis. No, "I wonder if he might throw up?" was needed. I don't think he had actually thrown up at that point but the death-metal gurgle was so aggressive that it was very clear he was about to within seconds. Which he did. In a startling act of revenge he managed to throw up all over his sister. My wife cleaned him up (although he was suspiciously untainted by his own up-chuck) and stripped the bed. I stood in the bathroom with my daughter amazed that she had vomit in her ear, her hair (just barely though), all over the side of her face and neck, all up her right side and she'd taken a direct hit on her foot so that it was congealed between her toes. None of that was run-off either. She had literally been pebble dashed in her brother's No-No Chunks. I could not convince her into the shower so I just cleaned her up with wash cloths. Which made her mad because when I asked her to wash her hands in the sink she thought I said, "head." She cried about that and complained that the water was too hot and that she was too cold. Like a good parent (I've read about them in books) I plowed through the tears and just got her clean, pajama'd-up and sent her to her room to wait for her mother to lie down with her. After remaking the bed my wife very briefly tried to lie down with my son but he was having none of it. He needed to be with me - but also not in bed.
So since about 3.30am we've been downstairs. He briefly let me sit with the laptop - but he quickly became irritated that I wasn't devoting all my attention to him. So I did what he wanted until around 4.15 - which was to lie down with him star-fished on top of me while he tried to go back to sleep. Sadly for him I had to take two very abrupt intermissions to go throw up myself. I knew it way ahead of time as well. I got the cold clammy sweats and that nasty salt-mouth before I went to bed and still had it when I woke up. But unlike the rest of my family I welcome vomiting with open arms. Better it come out, I say. I may have caught myself in that weird situation though where I probably needed to throw up - but as I was also curled over the toilet (very frequently cleaned over the last few days thankfully) it was a safe bet that I'd chuck something up anyway. I think most people could go lean over a toilet and end up vomiting without having needed to in the first place. But then I did have to go back for a sequel very quickly afterwards - so I'm more inclined to think it wasn't self-manufactured.
Whatever though - I feel better having got that out. I can tell because I'm craving a greasy-spoon breakfast and a damn good cup of tea. My son is fast asleep on the couch. Today is Friday - which usually involves bad cereal and thrift stores - so that should cheer everyone up. I'm crossing my fingers that my son either doesn't blow again or at least waits until he sees my wife's Jeep pull into the driveway before spurting another welcome package all over the kitchen.
For now though I'll have to make do with a cuppa.