My kids complain a lot. I mean probably not anymore than normal kids but it still seems excessive. From the wrong color cup, to the wrong seat at the table, to the wrong fill-in-the-ever-loving-blank. It’s always something and sometimes it just gets to be a little too much and you have to push back. I’m sure you can all relate.
One of their chief complaints is that “Mommy doesn’t push as good as Daddy” on the swings. This one, for whatever reason, really gets under my skin. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m preoccupied with such nuisances as “safety” and “well-being” I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m sick and tired of always being the “responsible” one. Or the “fun-sucker” as my husband so lovingly refers to me. Well this weekend it just got to me. It was one of those “anything you can do I can do better kind of moments”.
We were out back on the swings- just me and all 3 of them as the hubs was at work. I was single-handedly jumping from one child to the next and back again when the whining started.
“I want Daddddddyyyyyyy!”
“You don’t push as good!”
“I wanna go hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigher!”
So I decided to show them that I, in fact, could push good on the swings. In fact, I was the best swing-pusher in the history of swinging. I invented this shiznit. (Well, not really but I continue to be a legend in my own mind.)
So I started heaving them as fast as I could. Going higher and higher and higher. The squeals of delight echoed through the neighborhood. I was relishing in my victory when I noticed that Meeny (the 4 YO) suddenly got very still and very quiet. I paid little attention to this and continued down the line pushing Eeny (6 YO) and Miny (1 YO). When I came back to Meeny I gave him another HUGE push sending him up to the sky. As he reached the peak he exploded into a violent burst of projectile vomit. Eeny screamed as I lunged to try and stop the gauntlet of puke as he swung back and forth showering everything in his wake.
I couldn’t quite get the timing right as I chased the swing back and forth trying futilely to stop him. The whole time he is spewing vomit in a violent arc back and forth across the yard. I mean The Exorcist has got nothing on this kid. Nothing.
I finally managed to use my body as a battering ram and forced the swing to stop. At this point he was covered, I was covered, the dog was even covered and the wretching showed no signs of stopping.
He continued to sit on the swing grasping tightly to the chains and emptied his stomach contents as the dog fought to lick it up. Eeny was screaming at this time something along the lines of “WHAT IS THAT??? WHEN DID HE EAT CARROTS???”
Finally it stopped and we froze for a moment in shock and awe and the violence that had befallen us. I was able to get him off the swing and over to the water hose to spray us both down. I stripped him naked right in the backyard and began spraying him from head to toe. It was at this moment that I looked up to see a group of golfers frozen in time staring at us mouths agape and horridly disgusted looks on their faces. [I guess I should mention we live on a golf course.] I didn’t even bother to wave or speak or offer any type of explanation. Their expressions said it all. I can only imagine the conversations at the club tonight as they recount the harrowing tale on hole #15.
When I got Eeny, Meeny and Miny inside and got everyone cleaned up and changed. Meeny looked up at me his lower lip quivering and his face still green with motion sickness.
“Mommy?” he whimpered. “You push too high.”
I can’t decide if I’m proud of myself for finally showing them that I can push just as good as Daddy or feel bad for inducing such a horrible experience. Maybe a little bit of both. But I know this: I will never hear “You don’t push high enough” again.