It's Mother's Day. A day set aside to recognize the hard work of mothers everywhere, and I wish my mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother-in-law a wonderful day. Now that my kids are older (12 & 14), Mother's Day has taken on a sweet, relaxing tone. Chocolate croissants for breakfast (Trader Joe's makes a frozen version that you let rise overnight and bake in the morning that are to die for), maybe dinner out. Pretty low key. And let me tell you - I earned it this year - all in one night.
If you have a delicate constitution or are averse to vomit stories, it would probably be best if you moved on at this point. Just saying.
We had attended a fund raising art auction last night, and I got to sleep a little later than usual, probably around 11:00. It wasn't too much later than that when The Professor nudged me awake, uttering my favorite of phrases, "I'm so sorry, but I really need you to come." Big Trouble was in the bathroom getting into the shower, and The Professor explained that he had gotten sick. Now, anyone familiar with Big Trouble's childhood will know that he is a champion vomiter. Before the age of 5, he had probably thrown up at least once in every restaurant we frequented, at most family gatherings, and as a fairly regular occurrence around the house.
Now that he's older, this sort of thing either didn't happen, or happened without my involvement and in the proper receptacle. That was not to be this evening. I walked into his bedroom, and it was like a crime scene of vomit. I could re-create the action based on splash and pooling patterns. It was magnificent. And disgusting, And, being the mother, my job. The Professor was also graced with a delicate constitution, and had valiantly tried to start on the cleanup, only to lose his lunch himself (he made it to the toilet, however). I plowed through, and got the room cleaned up in about an hour (yes, it was that bad). By the time everything was said and done, it was after midnight. Mother's Day.
When I was young, I completely took my parents for granted. They were the authorities, the ones that knew what to do when you had a temperature, and did the clean-up when things went bad. And then you're the parent. The 105 degree fever is your problem, and you are the one that has to figure out what kitchen implement will best scoop up the pile of goo on your son's floor.
All I can say is a heartfelt thank you - for your help, your advice, and your love. (And for the large pastry scraper you got me for Christmas - it did the trick!) Happy Mother's Day!