The last thing my five year old said to me before bed was, “Mom, you look the same as you did on your University student card except your hair was darker (true), your eyes are higher now (false—I have not knowingly had any reconstructive surgery) and your teeth were whiter then.” (ouch)

And yet I still chose to help her when she vomited all over her room in the night. Our kids have a midnight-or-later only barfing policy so my cleaning company is always open for business.

I bathed her and brought her my personal bath pillow from our tub (so, new with tags) and she was able to relax.

This morning, I sent Greg out for vinegar to clean up the mess and kill some of the smell. He returned with cider vinegar. Okay, that’s a lie but not beyond the realm of possibility.

I tried a baking soda and water solution on a very large, but surprisingly perfectly circular, orange stain. I tried dish soap and warm water. I tried vinegar. I ran heaters, I ran fans. I opened windows. I turned up the heat.  I increased the fan strength and sent the rotating head in motion. I closed the window when it rained. I vacuumed. I re-applied the baking soda, soapy water, vinegar barf-combating trifecta followed by a second vacuuming and still I had a smelly, stained carpet stain that had mutated from carrot orange to in-your-face brown bile.

Along with the vinegar, Greg had picked up some carpet stain remover with an odour absorption ingredient and the chance to win a cruise. It stated in small print, under side effects—your children will develop tails.

I did NOT want to spray this stuff, especially in my kid’s bedroom but I didn’t think my vacuum could withstand another angry attempt at clearing the area, nor could I find enough jugs of vinegar to kill the smell. It should also be noted, the baking soda had made some sort of paste in the fibres of the carpet so I was finding myself running out of safe alternatives, shy of cutting the stain out with a knife and replacing it with a giant smiley face.

I sprayed the chemicals into the stain and things got weird. The puddle on the ground started to foam and I had clearly (subconsciously) sprayed the words “Terrible Mother” onto my kids floor.  Arms started to grow and slither across the carpet, grabbing me by the feet and with an evil, maniacal sneer told me what a bad parent I was. I doused the little man with my pathetic, homemade vinegar solution and ran to rinse my eyes.

At this point I’m afraid to go back. There will either be a monstrous hole in the carpet that has enveloped my children’s beds and clothing or, one of those, er, um, I-told-you-so moments from my husband.

I think in any scenario, I am the loser.