Man does he mean well. I mean, he wants desperately to help when that first yelp and scrambling splat lands somewhere in the house, in the wee hours of the night, by one of those three, non-paying squatters living here.
The who, the where and the what are a mystery for the first 20 seconds as we leap out of bed and run towards the light. The blinding, bathroom light.
Greg is so good at his job in sales.
He’s entertaining, he’s engaging, likeable and a real pleasure to have in class.
Where he falls short, is attempting to help when one of the kids has the stomach flu.
This latest event was really no different than the trillion before it other than it was a different kid on a different day with different fresh linens being tossed on the wet floor by a partner who has been repeatedly asked to please grab from the rag bin!
It started the same way it always does. Sometime around midnight when we’ve been asleep for about four hours (we wake up early, don’t judge) the first guttural, whirling echo swirls out of one of the children followed by the one word panic, “Mom!” Occasionally, they blurt out, “My tum…my…..hur…ts….” but that’s really more of an afterthought.
That should be the first hint he should just clamp down hard on that body pillow and force himself to go back to sleep. Always be closing. Always be closing.
Because he’s closer to the hall, he has first crack at finding the child and any deposits left en route to the bathroom.
This time, I heard a groan, the splat of liquid hitting the hardwood and then I heard something new–a thunderous crash.
When I made my way out into the hall, I realized my husband had made a slip ‘n slide out of someone’s bile. He was on all fours, (presumably, he’d landed on his back first and quickly flipped over to try to make the most of his short yet impressive run).
Now I have tears and moaning from two people. I rushed passed Greg to find Chloe with her head, well, A for effort but really buddy, you are nowhere near the toilet.
And then the clean up begins.
Did I mention what an amazing job Greg does in the boardroom?
I attempt to strip her bed and he instinctively yanks the comforter. I’m assuming he thinks if he whips it off the bed a la magician removing a tablecloth, he’ll avoid the inevitable. And then the tossing of bile and chunks all over the room parade begins. Stuff flies onto the dresser like a barf pinata and onto our 8 year old’s bedroom carpet and I-did-not-know-she-had-that candy collection.
“Greg, can you go and get some towels to mop up the floor.” It’s not really a question. Just a defeated exhale with a hint of, “I guess they didn’t teach this at any of those Caribbean conventions.”
He returns with a stack of freshly laundered, plush beach towels, tracking vomit on the bottoms of his feet through the house.
Try again. OLD TOWELS!!! RAGS!!! (insert clapping if you’re with me!) “And have you washed the bottoms of your feet?”
He gags at the smell and then gags thrice more.
I tell him how much I appreciate his help and he’s relieved to be sent back to bed with barf on the soles of his feet.
He’s such a good sales person.