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Title : The Biggest Lie of 2017
link : The Biggest Lie of 2017
The Biggest Lie of 2017
Is not what you think it is.
The biggest lie of 2017, as it turns out, wasn't something that Sean Hannity, Alex Jones, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, or the Russians said on Twitter or cable TV. No. The biggest lie of the year was uttered last night--just under the wire, by Isaac, in response to a simple, straightforward question:
"Are you gonna throw up?"
Isaac said no. He shook his head no. But the answer was the opposite of no. It was yes. A big, fat, hot, wet, messy, resounding yes.
Even if you don't have kids, you know that kids are disgusting and messy. Especially if you're a woman. At the very latest, you learn this in your early to mid-teens, when you awake one day in a literal bloodbath of your body's own making and realize, at least in theory, that it's got something to do with kids.
And if you do have kids, it only gets worse from there. I'm not a nurse or a doctor or a personal care assistant, and I didn't sign up for this, or so I thought. And yet here I am.
The blood keeps coming, especially in the six weeks after you have a kid (which by the way no one ever really tells you for some reason), but is something I found out ten years ago today when Paige was born. (A colleague with young children had warned me just a few days before Paige's birth: "Bring granny panties to the hospital and keep a bunch at home. For a WHILE.")
Kids are born drenched in a slurry of biological gunk and they just keep making more of it forever. From their noses. From their mouths. From their eyes. From their excretory system. Boogers. Drool. Tears. Piss. Shit. Regurgitated breast milk. Blood (infrequently, we hope). Vomit.
And it was this last biohazard--vomit--that was the subject of The Biggest Lie of 2017.
Isaac was bellyaching right after dinner in a way that raised my puke-dar and caused me to ask--SEVERAL times-- if there was barf coming. He was sitting on my lap, on the couch on top of a blanket, and I was rubbing his belly. His forehead felt a little bit damp, which was my first clue that he was lying, or at least didn't know how to identify an impending puke episode.
He was mid-denial when the retching started.
My right hand instinctively flew under Isaac's mouth to catch the chunks of chicken, potatoes, and salad, all of which had only briefly encountered his digestive tract and was now on its way back out into the world. And by the world, I mean his clothes, the couch, the blanket, the carpet, and me.
Geoff yelled at me to DO SOMETHING, which of course was impossible, because jumping up at this point would only spread the puke further, or so my theory went. My friend Becca and her kids were over, and they scattered like cockroaches under a flourescent light with the first heave of dinner. Paige followed them downstairs, making quite a show of her sisterly disgust, and they all cowered in her room as if in a "bunker," to quote Becca.
I immediately stripped Isaac down, threw him in the bathtub, folded all of the barfed-in clothing and blankets into a pile and threw them into the washing machine, hoping that the chunks would dissolve with a couple of washes, a wishful thought at which Becca expressed serious doubt. Geoff was left to the more industrial task of actually de-puking the couch and carpet, while I attended to Isaac.
Becca and her family quickly took their leave as I steered Isaac off to bed, a metal bowl on his dresser as a precaution.
He awoke the next morning hale, hearty, and bouncing off the walls. It was not the plague, as it turned out, but simply a one-off event. This is a crucial distinction: is the puke episode a one-time upset tummy? Or, far worse, is it the onset of a stomach virus that will rip through the entire household and fell everyone in it one at a time, like a remake of Outbreak starring Dustin Hoffman and Patrick Dempsey?
Fortunately it was the former, and we can all usher in 2018 without spending more time on a toilet than usual.
Happy New Year!
The biggest lie of 2017, as it turns out, wasn't something that Sean Hannity, Alex Jones, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, or the Russians said on Twitter or cable TV. No. The biggest lie of the year was uttered last night--just under the wire, by Isaac, in response to a simple, straightforward question:
"Are you gonna throw up?"
Isaac said no. He shook his head no. But the answer was the opposite of no. It was yes. A big, fat, hot, wet, messy, resounding yes.
Even if you don't have kids, you know that kids are disgusting and messy. Especially if you're a woman. At the very latest, you learn this in your early to mid-teens, when you awake one day in a literal bloodbath of your body's own making and realize, at least in theory, that it's got something to do with kids.
And if you do have kids, it only gets worse from there. I'm not a nurse or a doctor or a personal care assistant, and I didn't sign up for this, or so I thought. And yet here I am.
The blood keeps coming, especially in the six weeks after you have a kid (which by the way no one ever really tells you for some reason), but is something I found out ten years ago today when Paige was born. (A colleague with young children had warned me just a few days before Paige's birth: "Bring granny panties to the hospital and keep a bunch at home. For a WHILE.")
Kids are born drenched in a slurry of biological gunk and they just keep making more of it forever. From their noses. From their mouths. From their eyes. From their excretory system. Boogers. Drool. Tears. Piss. Shit. Regurgitated breast milk. Blood (infrequently, we hope). Vomit.
And it was this last biohazard--vomit--that was the subject of The Biggest Lie of 2017.
Isaac was bellyaching right after dinner in a way that raised my puke-dar and caused me to ask--SEVERAL times-- if there was barf coming. He was sitting on my lap, on the couch on top of a blanket, and I was rubbing his belly. His forehead felt a little bit damp, which was my first clue that he was lying, or at least didn't know how to identify an impending puke episode.
He was mid-denial when the retching started.
My right hand instinctively flew under Isaac's mouth to catch the chunks of chicken, potatoes, and salad, all of which had only briefly encountered his digestive tract and was now on its way back out into the world. And by the world, I mean his clothes, the couch, the blanket, the carpet, and me.
Geoff yelled at me to DO SOMETHING, which of course was impossible, because jumping up at this point would only spread the puke further, or so my theory went. My friend Becca and her kids were over, and they scattered like cockroaches under a flourescent light with the first heave of dinner. Paige followed them downstairs, making quite a show of her sisterly disgust, and they all cowered in her room as if in a "bunker," to quote Becca.
I immediately stripped Isaac down, threw him in the bathtub, folded all of the barfed-in clothing and blankets into a pile and threw them into the washing machine, hoping that the chunks would dissolve with a couple of washes, a wishful thought at which Becca expressed serious doubt. Geoff was left to the more industrial task of actually de-puking the couch and carpet, while I attended to Isaac.
Becca and her family quickly took their leave as I steered Isaac off to bed, a metal bowl on his dresser as a precaution.
He awoke the next morning hale, hearty, and bouncing off the walls. It was not the plague, as it turned out, but simply a one-off event. This is a crucial distinction: is the puke episode a one-time upset tummy? Or, far worse, is it the onset of a stomach virus that will rip through the entire household and fell everyone in it one at a time, like a remake of Outbreak starring Dustin Hoffman and Patrick Dempsey?
Fortunately it was the former, and we can all usher in 2018 without spending more time on a toilet than usual.
Happy New Year!
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