This is the title of a great book by Chinua Achebe, about when the European powers colonized Africa. Other then the title that book and this blog share nothing in common. This blog is about when over a decade of togetherness becomes every man (or woman) for himself. Since before Kyleigh was born Jen and I had developed a great crisis management system. We mostly practiced on our cats (Hayley and Nike). Coughing up a hairball, puking up something that was not edible for cats etc., no problem one of us would clean and the other would get the cat to a better place (bathtub, hardwood floor, just somewhere easy to clean). By the time Kyleigh arrived Jen and were a well oiled machine when it came to vomiting. For our 7th anniversary Kyleigh crawled in our bed and commenced vomiting. I caught the puke Jen grabbed towels and not a word was spoken we just took care of business. For years this is what we did, but last night that came to a screeching halt - the machine just stopped working.
At 11:45 Miki comes into the living room coughing and crying (Jen and I are sleeping in the living room so our coughing will not wake Wilson). I hear Miki and hop up before she heads back to our room. She sees me in the living room and walks over to me. She is crying and coughing and I thought she had a bad dream, so standing on the rug (that'll be important later) I pick her up to hold her. Just as she settles into the safe embrace of her father, she pukes, not projectile, but just right down my back, all of it. I froze, I just stood there with warm vomit running down my back, in my shorts, down m legs. The next thing I know (hours could have passed for the shock I was in) Jen is yelling "Get off the rug, get to the wood floor". I had snapped, the machine was broken. I moved to the wood where Miki let out one more warm rush of vomit (I had no idea her stomach was that big). I am now officially covered in vomit from head to toe. I abandon the mission, forget all protocol and move into self preservation mode. I put Miki down on the wood floor and go to the bathroom and shower. The shower brings me back to reality and I do return to the living room and help Jen. I had left her in a desperate situation: puke on the rug, puke on the floor, puke on the kid. In my head warm vomit running the length of your entire body dictates you shower. I apologize and begin cleaning. I bathe Miki, (covered in vomit from her bed where we will later find out this all began), dress her, strip the bed and start a load of laundry. Despite all of this effort the great machine had ceased to work. Jen and laid on the couches after Miki went back to bed and just laughed at the situation and our lack of preparedness. I have been in deep thought reviewing everything trying to come up with why. Is it the stress of living over seas, sleep deprivation from Wilson, am I just selfish? Have I raised my need to be clean above the needs of others (that's probably it actually)? I don't know. The best I can come up with is sometimes things fall apart.
At 11:45 Miki comes into the living room coughing and crying (Jen and I are sleeping in the living room so our coughing will not wake Wilson). I hear Miki and hop up before she heads back to our room. She sees me in the living room and walks over to me. She is crying and coughing and I thought she had a bad dream, so standing on the rug (that'll be important later) I pick her up to hold her. Just as she settles into the safe embrace of her father, she pukes, not projectile, but just right down my back, all of it. I froze, I just stood there with warm vomit running down my back, in my shorts, down m legs. The next thing I know (hours could have passed for the shock I was in) Jen is yelling "Get off the rug, get to the wood floor". I had snapped, the machine was broken. I moved to the wood where Miki let out one more warm rush of vomit (I had no idea her stomach was that big). I am now officially covered in vomit from head to toe. I abandon the mission, forget all protocol and move into self preservation mode. I put Miki down on the wood floor and go to the bathroom and shower. The shower brings me back to reality and I do return to the living room and help Jen. I had left her in a desperate situation: puke on the rug, puke on the floor, puke on the kid. In my head warm vomit running the length of your entire body dictates you shower. I apologize and begin cleaning. I bathe Miki, (covered in vomit from her bed where we will later find out this all began), dress her, strip the bed and start a load of laundry. Despite all of this effort the great machine had ceased to work. Jen and laid on the couches after Miki went back to bed and just laughed at the situation and our lack of preparedness. I have been in deep thought reviewing everything trying to come up with why. Is it the stress of living over seas, sleep deprivation from Wilson, am I just selfish? Have I raised my need to be clean above the needs of others (that's probably it actually)? I don't know. The best I can come up with is sometimes things fall apart.
1 comment:
I believe the comment about your need to have everything clean, but I still can't get over the comment where you said you laid in bed and laughed about it...talk about sleep deprived... I can never see vomit running down my back and legs as funny, no matter how much time has passed. YOU (and Jen) are the Man!
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