Today is my birthday so posting this mom's story is appropriate for the occasion:
It was the eve of my thirty-seventh birthday and my two sons; John, age seven, and Danny, age four, were excited for the day to arrive. Not because it was a day to celebrate me, but because they knew a birthday celebration always involved cake! It was the usual bedtime routine for the boys ... but as they climbed into bed, Danny mentioned he had a bellyache. I downplayed his plight (as moms and dads often do) and told him that a goodnight sleep was just the cure! The kids drifted off to sleep and I did the same. The next morning was MY day, I got my tennis outfit on and by eight-o'clock I hear the kids scrambling to open my bedroom door …. quick as a flash, my youngest, races towards me with his arms out wide in preparation for the ceremonial birthday squeeze … I knelt down to embrace him … and before he could finish saying, “Happy Birthday Mommy,” I was covered from head-to-toe in puke! The projectile vomit went down my tennis dress, into my sneakers, into my ears, up my nose, and yes … other places! My oldest, John, just stood in the door in amazement and said in a very low voice, “You mean Happy Barf-day.” It goes without saying that my friends played tennis without me. I spent my entire birthday nursing my sick son and cleaning vomit up from all over him, our clothes, the rug, and myself. It’s amazing how some smells can linger for days. Now, each year on my birthday, my kids (especially Danny) will always laugh and say, “Do you remember when I threw up on you on your birthday?” I wonder how they think I could ever forget that?
Susan S., N.Y.
photo credit: http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1264/1099454450_73e5b21f5c.jpg
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