PoeticaL
cluttering the net since 2001

puke pubes and all things buickly gross

Tuesday, Oct. 12, 2004
Earlier this afternoon I listened to R throwing up via cellphone. He’d surely kick my ass for writing this in my diary so shhhh don’t tell him. The reason I disclose this deeply private information is…a story I want to tell. When my son was about 2 ½ years old he got a stomach virus suddenly and horrifically. He started to throw up every time he stood up, sat down, moved. Everything he ate came back out. He was a walking talking moving and breathing geyser of vomitola. I recall at the time listening to him one night at 2 a.m. throwing up in the bathroom while his Dad held him over the bathtub. That night I was spent, I was so tired I couldn’t move. And yet, I wanted to fix it, I wanted to band aid his stomach and make him all better. I prayed to the puke gods to just let it stop. The horrid wretching and absolute ughity’ness of listening to someone you love be ill so violently. While listening to R today I was sucked back in time to my son being 2 ½ years old…I was in that hot waterbed in that tiny ass stinking trailer up in PA. I was there in a flash and I felt just as helpless as I had in the past. Sure he asked me to hang on when he realized his chocolate milk was about to make a break for it. But while hanging on his phone was somewhere near enough to the stomachquake that I heard it all. Incidentally R has a bad bad stomach. It’s hard to explain but his stomach is as sensitive and keenly aware of everything just like a gay man in the heart of Redneck country. Any little upset and it’s Mount St. Helens. So my ears have been witness to this problem quite a few times in the past but never while so far away there was nothing I could do but listen and cringe.

Now don’t get me wrong, when I myself buy a Buick it doesn’t phase me one bit unless I have nothing within my stomach to pay for the wretched car with. That sucks. Being stomach broke and body ill is a real bitch. But myself being sick…it’s downright hassle inducing but it doesn’t much phase me unless you get the dreaded nostril spittage happening. Having your stomach lining emerge from your own nose is akin to the placenta flopping out after childbirth. It’s something you rarely speak of but are very grossly aware of as being on the top ten grossest things that can ever happen. (Incidentally on my top ten list is the vaginal intercourse fart of air expelling…while this is a sign of good times, it’s something we’d all rather not speak of or admit to…right??? right??? clenching your kegal muscles right now doesn’t change the fact that you know from where I speak ladies nor will strong ass kegal muscles prevent the pussy fart in the future!)

Shortly after listening to R throw up, I drove about 4.5 miles and picked him up from work and drove him home. He was white and not looking so well. I had the same nurturing feelings towards him that I once had towards my 2 ½ year old son. It’s been a very long time since I myself have witnessed my son worshipping the porcelain gods, but I can honestly tell you that if I had a boo boo band aid today I would have kissed it better and plastered that right on my honey’s tummy the same way I wanted to for my own child. He was miserably ill. He was white and ghostlike and he was thanking me profusely for spending my entire hour of lunch picking him up and driving him across town only to come back across town to come to work again. Thanking me. And all I really wanted to do was run a hot bath for him, comb his hair and tuck him into bed. I didn’t want to up and leave him like that.

Where does this motherly nurturing love come from? Why does it break my heart to see him suffer in the exact same way that it breaks my heart to see my son suffer? I can recall several times when my ex-husband went to the hospital (of course he was a hypochondriac of major proportions!) and I didn’t care. I literally didn’t give a flying fuck. Yet sitting at my desk listening to chocolate milk make it’s untimely escape was horrific and gut wrenching and I wanted to hug him, hold his hand, help him…be there..do something. The not being able to do anything for him while listening to him suffer was monumentally frustrating. I was feeling rubbed raw and agitated that sometimes the nicest people in the world get the shittiest days. (yah…I’m thinking of a certain little boy who got sick in class today too.)

I suppose in the end I’m glad I could be there for him. Take him home. Kiss his cheek. In the midst of an unrelated conversation I was having with him on the way home he told me “if you ever let me down I’d be disappointed in you and I would hope if I ever broke your trust you’d be disappointed in me too.” Something about that…I already know it would break me in two. There’s a bond I have with him that I never had before. Something like a string that ties us together into something bigger, better. I believe we both have made each other better people.

Incidentally if you get up at 5 a.m. and go to work at a construction job you should probably eat something more than chocolate milk for lunch. I hope it was just bad milk and not something more….

-PoeticaL

I can’t believe I wrote about pussy farts… Join me next time when I’ll talk about pubic hair as an emergency dental floss.
8:23 p.m. ::
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