I had forgotten all about this little story, but my husband reminded me of it again last night. Funny how this is nearly the sole memory he has of parenting our children through those early awful years.
Our oldest was still very young – perhaps around a year. (Give my husband a break, at least he remembers some of the details.) He had come down with some germ-disaster that left him puking his little guts out. In my defense, this kid pukes over the thought of eating mashed potatoes, so it is no wonder I’ve repressed the memory.
Anyhoo, I was on puke-detail with him and was doing one of those “mom-moment” kinds of things – hold his head, writhing body, and the puke bucket all while managing to contain the biohazard.
Except that when he puked, he had his omni-present pacifier (aka binkey) in his mouth, so when he puked, it went into the bucket right along with everything else. I guess I might remember this, but there were just so many situations just like it, it gets hard to distinguish one puke-fest from another. The kid could have operated his own vomitorium, I swear. (Using the incorrect definition of the term, of course.)
The part I try to forget is where he picked up his binkey and put it in my mouth. While I give him kudos for noticing that it needed to be washed off, I penalize him all allowance funds until age 18 for thinking my mouth was the acceptable receptacle.
Of course, my husband remembers this event mostly because this is the story he likes to share with hugely pregnant couples in the guise of “you just won’t believe how parenting changes you.”