Friday, September 19, 2008

Pukin' Rally

With that title, you probably expect to read a story that rivals my 21st birthday, which involved me walk-puking all over Aggieville, but actually what's to follow is yet another adventure in babysitting.
Remi always gets a little pissy when mom and dad leave for the night. I mean, I guess they're pretty cool, so I can understand why. However, I can always get her to stop crying fairly quickly by handling it like any child-less aunt would - I bribe her with cookies - and it works like a charm every time.
Except this time she carried on like somebody was trying to kill her. She didn't want a cookie, she didn't want a Popsicle and she didn't want me to push her around in her little cart, but she did want to cling to my leg for dear life all while still screaming her head off, stopping briefly from time to time to repeat, 'mama, mama, mama,' then continue the screaming and crying at a higher octave with more force. That child has some lungs and I no longer have ear drums.
Something was obviously wrong and I suspected she didn't feel good since she had thrown up that morning, but Gina said she had been completely fine since then. So, I decided to try to just put her to bed and end the sirens. She cried and carried on while I put on her pajamas, but cooperated, which told me that this was probably a good idea. The "putting on the jammies" signals bedtime, which also means bottle time, which also means more screaming with brief pausing to repeat, 'baba, baba, baba,' then continue with a wailing chorus of 'uppy.' This means I'm supposed to pick her up while I fumble around with the 55 pieces it takes to put together one of her fancy bottles, which, by the way, is impossible for the inexperienced, multitasking non-mommy and caused her to fly into the biggest fit of the night thus far.
I'm like, she has never acted like this before. What the hell is going on?
By the time we got settled in the rocking chair downstairs with the sacred bottle, she chilled out and eventually fell asleep. This time she actually wanted to curl up and sleep on me rather than the dog bed. I felt pretty privileged.
She woke up when I moved her to her bed, so I laid on the floor next to her and she stayed quiet for a good 10 minutes. Then, suddenly, she sits up in bed, looks at me, looks back down at her pillow and vomit begins to spew out of her mouth. OH SHIT.
All over the pillow, all over the bed - I pick her up at arm's length certain there will be a round two and try to make it to the bathroom, but it ends up in the middle of the floor instead. I continue running to the bathroom with this baby stretched out in front of me just in case of a round three, but nothing else comes out and she's just standing there on the bathroom floor, in vomit soaked pajamas, wide-eyed and hysterical. It's the strangest thing to see a 20-month-old throw up because they have no idea what's going on or what to do during or after it happens.
Then the motherly instincts that I sometimes wonder if I actually possess kick in as I immediately wrap her a towel, pick her up and head back upstairs, while she wraps her arms and legs around me like a spider monkey, both of us now covered in rancid baby barf. Poor baby, she just didn't feel good.
Scott got called away from the bar to help deal with the puking rally and while I waited, Remi hung out with me on the couch in her diaper. And she literally hung, lifeless, poor little thing.
The next day Gina called to apologize for her child's spontaneous transformation into Reagan from the Exorcist, but I didn't care. It wasn't like it was some random kid - it was my little niece Remi. I feel like she's my own child and I'd do anything to protect her from feeling sad or scared or sick even if it means wallowing around in puke.
God, I hate to see what's it's going to be like when she starts dating. I'll probably be arrested repeatedly for kicking little 15-year-old boys in the balls for dumping her or even looking at her wrong.
I'm like, hmmm, maybe I can have these little shits everybody else in the world calls children...but only if they're like Remi...preferably with a little less barf.

No comments:

 

View my page on Twenty Something Bloggers