I am sound asleep. Or should I say “was asleep”? I had not been asleep for very long.
In my house, it seems that the minute we “parents” shut off the last light in the living room to head off to our much needed slumbering respite the residing Lilliputians internal sensors set off alarms and they sit up in bed and yell our names..
Just before the clock strikes eleven in my sweet little home, the round of requests begin -- for trips to the potty, glasses of water, or promises that there are most certainly no monsters hiding in the closet or under the beds. With four children, these types of REM interruptions are quite commonplace and when I finally get a chance to lie my exhausted head down on my pillow – I am usually out like a light.
But now, I find myself standing in the kitchen with my phone in hand and to my ear. My heart is racing and I cannot see because of the dots in front of my eyes. While trying to remember how I got from my bed to the kitchen phone - I hear a small recognizable voice on the other end.
“Mom? I do not feel good. I want to come home.”
I identify the voice as one of my own children. I remember that she is at a sleep over -- two towns over. Having regained my vision, I see that the clock on the microwave is blinking and needs to be reset. I look over at the other wall to see what time it is and the digital clock reads in an eerily greenish color 12:30 a.m.
I tell my child to sit tight, I will be there shortly. My mind races, I barely have the phone hung up and I am throwing on a sweatshirt and shoes. I briefly hesitate and glance over to where my husband sleeps --unaware, peacefully oblivious and snoring. I think about waking him, but decide against it – I grab the keys and go.
I start the van, and it hesitates. It was like the minivan was even questioning what was happening.. I guess even our beloved “ride” was tired.
It takes a painful 15 minutes to reach my daughter. I am greeted at the door by a disheveled sleepy Mother, my pink cheeked, glassy eyed child and her supportive friend. I grab the 20 bags and pillows and blankets that my daughter had packed for this adventure and throw my apologies over my shoulder as I walk her to the minivan.
We get her settled, buckle in and begin our journey home. We chat a little on the ride home, and my daughter appears to feel better. She mentions that she has a headache and opens her window. No sooner is the window open , does she lean out the passenger side window and throws up.
Now, I am sure you all can imagine what happens when your going down the road at 45 miles an hour and you throw up out a window. It most certainly did not end the way my daughter had wished. She (and I) were covered. It was not good. Every undigested sweet treat that she had enjoyed munching on at the sleepover was sprayed upon us.
Then, as I am just about to lose it, my daughter calmly turns her sweet disgustingly smelly self towards me and begins to speak. She is not crying. She is calm and collected. She looks into my eyes and says to me, “ Mom, I am really sorry about this. I however, feel a ton better. I am glad that I did not throw up at the sleep over because it would have made a big mess there.”
I wanted to scream.
I found myself filled with sympathy and irritation as I watched her wipe her face with her clean sweatshirt. I had a list of unsupportive, cranky Momma retorts that I wanted to say. I continued driving as I simultaneously held my breath and ground my teeth.
Then she looks at me with those sparkly eyes and her crooked grin and says;
“We will always remember this one. Right Mom? We will probably look back on this someday and laugh.”
(Laugh? Come on kid. It is one o’clock in the morning, it is 70 degrees out and humid and we are covered in vomit in the minivan.)
I growled as she giggled….