Tuesday, September 14, 2010

T Says....

I knew we were in trouble early Saturday when as I showered, I first smelled and then peered from behind the curtain to note T quietly perched upon the toilet.  The sight of him was not so alarming as his exclamation, "My poop is most definitely not in groups, momma!" 

"Awesome," I replied. "Thank you for sharing and stinking up my shower...again." 

And so we carried on: T dressing in his padded armor for his football scrimmage and then both of us driving 45 minutes there, me chattering mindlessly about how he needed to EAT! that buttered toast, EAT! something or he'd never play up to his mighty 11 year old self's potential, and T sitting there mostly in silence, peering oddly out the window.
He did not eat save for a few bites of yogurt and toast...and when I looked over and noted that instead, he'd guzzled down an entire JUG of water I nearly crashed the car telling him  "OMG STOP...you're going to be so water logged you'll puke!"

Which might as well have been an omen, because sure as the wind blows, we pulled into the parking lot to the football stadium and he turned and faced me and immediately began puking, all over my (for the first time in my LIFE, to the tune of $200 detailed) car.  He puked in the vents.  He puked on the windows.  He puked in that handy compartment where you put the maps and important papers.  He puked on the seats.  He puked in the console.  He puked on the upholstery and the carpet and...well, you get the point.  Never one to discriminate, he also puked mightily on himself. 

When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked up at me and said, "Now what are we going to do?" 
And I said, "Well, you can play, or we can go home." 
He said, "I have to play. I feel much better now.  It's just that darned Nervous Nelly stomach of mine."
I noted, "Your uniform is covered in puke!"

Because I had just picked my now vomit infested car up from the detailer the day before, I had NOTHING in said car with which to clean up said puke.  So I took his tshirt off him, mopped up the puke from his pants and dumped my water on his jersey, and sent him on his way to warm-ups.  In the meantime, I parked the car and gagged incessantly.

He played the game. He stunk mightily.  He fared well, nonetheless.  And only one teammate accused him of "smelling like he'd rolled in crap." Not bad, he decided later, for how much he'd puked.

This morning as we stumbled about getting ready for school/work, already a half hour behind schedule, T began playing a brief concert on his keyboard, you know, prior to getting dressed, letting the dogs out, and the other fifteen things that needed done because we apparently desperately needed a little Bach to start our (late) morning out right. 

Little did he/we know, his dog reeeeally needed to pee.  So after I'd told T approximately 57 times to hurry up, the dogs needed let out, they have to pee...said dog squatted quite literally on my bare foot and began pissing.  Everywhere.  

She pissed on my foot, she pissed on my rug, she pissed on my bedroom floor and when I started screaming at her to stop pissing, she began running about the various rooms of our house and finally down the stairs...pissing in all of those locations too.
She was um, unstoppable.

T eventually led her outside (where she will more than likely still be in 47 years), and I began mopping, bleaching, and then steam cleaning up her mess.
What seemed like hours later, finally in the car, headed for school, I said to no one in particular, "I swear, I still smell like pee."

T says: "That's funny, all I smell is puke!"

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