It was worse than being dressed up as "Mrs Nesbit."
I knew things were going to be tough when, after being happy and healthy when put to bed at 7:00pm last night, Sonny Ma-Jiminy woke up at 9:30pm talking gibberish with a raging fever and spaced-out nightmares. We made it through the night with Panadol and sleepless hours, and were at the doctor first thing to discover tonsillitis and gratefully accept an antibiotic to help our first-born get over the illness that crept up on him so quickly.
This morning, the vomiting started. I've been a mother for 4 years and 2 months now, and I can guarantee that when they say, "You get used to the smell of vomit - it's okay when it's your own kid" that they're not talking about me.
Today there was one unsuspecting victim of the collateral damage that a surprise vomit can deliver.
When the vomit came flying out of Sonny's mouth with not much more warning than, "I feel so bad!" poor Buzz was lying in the trajectory.
With his helmet open.
Face up, so his backpack created a little reservoir underneath, only to be discovered in transit from the Place Of Vomit to the Place Of Cleaning. Drip, drip, drip.
Buzz, with his characteristic stoic grin plastered on his face, caught a large amount of curdled milk. In the flurry of cleaning the floor, couch and blanket, and getting two children showered, dressed and ready for a quick trip to the doctor's office, Buzz was forgotten and left on the kitchen sink awaiting cleaning.
When we returned, he had not cleaned himself up so I decided to do the job for him. I did it in between gagging, choking, retching, running for the vomit bucket myself and ... yes, you know me all too well ... clinging onto the last vestiges of continence with determination borne of desperate necessity.
Buzz's helmet has a front panel that "does that WHOOSH thing" (as Smoochy says when quoting Woody) - it swings upwards and retracts behind the rear portion of the helmet. Which meant that cleaning vomit from the inside of the front portion (how did it get there, if the helmet was open?) was impossible in both the open and shut positions, with or without Buzz threatening, "I have a laser, and I'll use it."
As if it wasn't hard enough cleaning the inside of the rear portion of the helmet behind Buzz's head with a toothbrush while he declared "Somebody's gotta stop that Evil Emperor Zurg."
I grasped his little Space Ranger body and scrubbed the curdles out of the nooks and crannies while Buzz proclaimed that "I don't think we're in the Gamma Quadrant anymore" and threatened, "Never tangle with a Space Ranger, my friend."
He then spent a day lying in the sun. I was worried that all the washing and scrubbing may have damaged his mechanical bits causing him to lose his power to verbally command the Universe, instead able only to deliver deep-voiced messages from Satan: "Loooook aat myy iiimpreeeessssive wiing-spaaaaannnn."
Yet Buzz lives. His power of speech remains with him. He reeks of vomit and has been banished outside. We don't know what to tell the small neighbour who actually owns him.
But Sonny continues to vomit, only once keeping his Panadol down and twice keeping his antibiotic down. I hope he sleeps well tonight, his temperature decreases and he can keep all his medication down.
The poor little superhero.
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