I’ve always been a bit of an over-washer when it comes to washing my hands. It stems from 6th grade English class when Mrs. Dunn told us the story of her surgeon uncle, a child that chewed her nails incessantly, a scalpel and a microscope. Things that can’t be unheard.
So Saturday, Mr. Horn was waiting for some Emmy Kate-inspiration to write a new blog. Things had been in a fairly rough routine, but nothing that I thought I could blog about without using an unnecessary amount of expletives. And, as karma would always dictate to me when I’m secretly wishing something would inspire me to greatness, I would have it. Only usually it’s Shakespearean tragedy, typically.
Friday was great water hose play. Jess captured some absolutely precious moments as Emerson was just having a whale of a time. Saturday was more of the same; we took a walk to the new house (big announcement there) and snuck in our Sunday routine of Mexican food that night since we had plans for lunch on our usual Sunday lunch. But the dusk of the weekend’s last promise proved to be the start of a sleepless new week.
It was 2:30 AM on Sunday now. Emerson had woken up in a somewhat concerning way, which has become a little too common. This dry heave gag thing that we hear too often. It’s the drainage from being sick causing her to choke, in a sense. Some nights she just goes back to sleep, some nights she starts to wail.
As I’m holding our poor darling toddler, rocking her and thinking about sugar plums and sandmen and all other things sleep, I hear that guttural, pending-doom noise start. I remind you it’s 2:30 AM. My hands cup as if I’m taking communion from a cherub fountain but of the most foul, horrible nature. And my cup runneth over.
Soured milk is an awful smell. I remember back to my 1980’s waterbed that was still there in the late 90’s, embarrassingly. I didn’t realize, as my mom had brought me cereal for breakfast in bed (every morning, what a mom!) whilst I watched SportsCenter on ESPN to catch up with the sad-sack Dallas Mavericks of my youth, that spilling said Fruity Pebbles before school may leak into the deep crevices of this hyd0-bed. It happened to be weeks later when I experienced that soured milk smell for the first time. Such grossness comes from all teenage boys.
A bath ensued that night, 21 years after the Fruity Pebble incident, to clean off our child who was covered in this foul, horrific, odiferous scent. I washed my hands as well, Mrs Dunn.
Since that incident, we’ve been plagued with this malady. Vomit. Puke. Wretch. Just over and over again, my willing hands catching this vile act when I’m near. Some objects haven’t been so lucky. I present Emerson’s Mom’s carseat this morning, for instance. Waiting patiently in the sun as I got home after a thorough garden-hosing from the morning commute. We can’t figure it out either. Is she just kind of sensitive to the gag reflex? Is she sicker than we think? Does she just enjoying being a cherub fountain in the only way she knows how?
To tie back into my youth, I’ve probably washed my hands 4 times tonight, outside of the bath that I gave Emerson when my hands were immersed in the sudsy water, and I still feel like I need some bleach-lined gloves. Mrs. Dunn’s effect on her Honey Bears still lingers to this day.