Ever thrown up in car line before?

Let me paint the picture for you.

You take your kid to school in the morning, perfectly healthy, heck, you even look a little cute.  I don’t know why, the rats in your hair are laying just right, perhaps?  Or maybe the zit you’ve been putting toothpaste on every night has finally cleared up?

Either way, you look hot for 7am.  And, you even remember the festive plates for your kid’s class Christmas party and don’t end up sitting in your car in the parking lot drawing trees and snowmen on white Styrofoam plates with a sharpie with the windows rolled up and…it’s just getting weird feeling in here, right?  Did you just hear me blink, too!?

Admittedly, I was having a good morning.  So much so, that Gigi and I stopped off to Subway for their weird egg white omelet sandwich thing…have you had that yet?  It super good, but I try not to actually think about it, because the warm tomatoes make me uncomfortable.

We get home, and I am all, I’m going to clean stuff today!

After a whole weekend of kid’s puking and crapping all over my house (We have to replace a couch.  Don’t ask.), I wanted to purge the house from all the germs and funk.

So I did.  I cleaned the carpets, and scrubbed the toilets, and just as I was dumping out all the tainted Sprite and Ginger Ale, my stomach lurched.

No.  Noooooo.

I’d been Lysoling everything on the hour, I wore rubber gloves to clean up vomit and then coated my body in Purrell, this is not fair!

I run to the bathroom, and it just explodes out of my body.  Every piece of everything I had even eaten, including the fucking warm tomatoes.

Gigi could care less, but Poppy treats every toilet hurl like a spectator sport, with the added bonus of me totally peeing everywhere, sending her into a full on, OMG you’re peeing, too!?  This is so fucking exciting, let me sniff that, then sniff your face, then sniff that again, and bark super loud, then chase my tale, because this is like fucking Christmas and I AM AN IDIOT.

An hour passes before I can finally pull myself away from the bathroom floor, and I call Andy at work.

Andy, I’m puking everywhere, please come home and help me.

I can’t we are slammed today.

But, I can’t watch Gigi, something could happen to her.

Put a movie on for her, she’ll lay in bed with you.

I can’t just lock her in my room, what if she’s in the kitchen and the stove catches on fire?

Why is the stove on?

What if a stranger comes to the door and takes her?

Lock the door and turn the alarm on.

What if it’s a guy from Ocean’s Eleven and he knows how to get passed the codes and I don’t hear because I’m throwing up or changing my underwear?

Really? Plus isn’t Bernie Mac and that blonde guy dead?  That should increase your odds for survival. 

Right, but Scott Caan isn’t dead, he’s in Hawaii Five-O, which I guess is the same thing. Plus I think I read somewhere he was a dwarf…so, I mean, there’s that.

I was on my own.  Thankfully Gigi was down for napping, and I climbed into bed beside her, deciding to spend the rest of the day there, barring the bathroom runs.

Hours later, I awoke to my phone beeping and vibrating.  It was the alarm I always have set to remind me that I had other children outside of the home, and I was responsible for picking them up.  I rarely had to use it, except for instances where I was in a meeting or lost in the Target Matrix.

I had completely forgotten this part.

How the hell was I supposed to get in my car and drive all the way to school to pick them up, without throwing up?  I couldn’t even stand upright.

This is bad. This is bad. This is bad.

I grabbed a handful of empty plastic shopping bags, my daughter, some body spray, shoved a Huggies Pull Up into my underwear, and climbed into the car.

I made it about 2 miles, then pulled off the side of the road, threw up into a bag, tied it closed with a knot, and put in on the passenger floor.

A few more miles.  Vomit.  Knot.  Store on the floor.

By the time I reached the school parking lot and found my place in car line, I was green, covered in sweat, and had five knotted bags of vomit on my floor.

I felt like Brittany Murphy with her hoarded chicken carcasses in Girl Interrupted.

I blasted the air conditioning and kept my eyes glued to the school for any sign of movement.  The bile rose in my throat.  I could not throw up here.  I was surrounded by pretty women standing outside their cars chatting.  Women who would see me heave full force into a Target bag, and probably come ask me if I was ok, and then they would smell my whole vomity car and see Gigi was in a car seat wearing a Hooters Cancun shirt and no pants in the middle of winter, because I couldn’t make it up the stairs to her room for real clothes, and then I’d be that lady.  The lady not allowed to have play dates at her house or drive for field trips.

But I couldn’t swallow it down, so I leaned over to the passenger seat, grabbed the biggest Target bag I had brought, and began to mime looking for something inside of it, until my head was deep enough in that I could throw up unnoticed.

Just as I pulled my head out of the bag, kids burst from the front door, and Wyatt and Jude quickly spotted my car and made their way over…with a teacher, because….of course.

The boys climbed in the back as I rolled my window down, scared to death my car smelled like a bar alley.

Hi Mrs. Gibbons, I just wanted to bring out all the school Work Wyatt missed when he was sick last week, and let you know to just get it back in after the break, no rush.

Perfect, thanks so much.

Oh, looks you you got a little Christmas shopping in today, lots of bags of goodies next to you, how fun.

Yes.  Totally fun.  Lots of…goodies.

Ok, well have a good night!

You, too!

On the plus side…I’ve apparently gotten Andy’s Christmas shopping done.

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