Puke Factory

Oh my. Yesterday evening, I felt a bit queasy and a wee bit dizzy, but completely ignored it. Must be something, because today, Little Man's (age 8 1/2) school called saying he was throwing up. Off I went to go pick him up, he threw up two more times before we got to the car. Thank goodness he did ok in the car and we live just a few blocks from school. I know you are not familiar with our family members yet, so here is a quick run down:
Me: Jo, mom, age 44 (for five more days!)
dh: Bald man, age 48
(we have been married 25 years)
Pgymy child: daughter, age 24
The Princess: daughter, age 23
Her Pea: grand daugher, age 7 months, known by a horde of nicknames, including Miss Busy, Cuteness in Motion etc. Pea belongs to the Princess of course.
Oldest Son: age 21
Girlfriend: age 20
Middle Son: age 18
JJ: son, age 16
Little man, age 8 1/2

Little man came to us by way of the foster care system, then adopted by our whole family. He is loved and cherished. He is also a heck of a lot of work.
Due to some things, a birth mother who was a heroin addict and a rare genetic condition, Little Man's IQ hovers just above 50. I guess you need a higher IQ to throw up in a bowl. Hence, the title of today's post: The Puke Factory. Mostly it is involving me, (still not feeling too hot) stripping things that have been thrown up on, and starting a new load of laundry. Also deciding, hmmm, you know we have had this bed skirt for a long time, I don't think it is going to survive being washed, into the the trash you go, with the added benefit of not having to wash it.
In between throwing stuff in the wash, and moving stuff to the dryer, I heard my computer and new blog, cooing to me... Joooo, jjjjjjoooooo, come post, come update me, come check on your favorite bloggy friends. So I did. Bad Mom!
On top of that, because of his genetic syndrome and some of the medication he takes, getting dehydrated for him is actually life threatening. So I am doing my Mommy Hawk imitation. One beady black eye watches him, hop over to another part of the nest, move a few twigs, other beady black eye looks over at him, hop, you get the picture. I need to keep an eye on him in case we have to make a mad dash to our local children's hospital for some IV therapy. Sound like fun? Anyone want to trade??
But now, Little Man is saying, Mommmm, where are you??? So off I go to man my post at the Puke Factory assembly line.
Open mouth, puke, pick it up, throw it out or put it in the wash, rinse, repeat. Where is the Febreeze?