December is the Season for Vomit

I've been dealing with a bout of insomnia again lately, so I was only asleep about forty-five minutes when Punky's loud yell echoed through the monitor only six inches from my head. 

"Mommy! Daddy! I have to cuke!" 

I glanced at the clock.  Five-thirty.  Her dad hadn't left for work yet.  I rolled over and prayed it was only a dream, but no such luck.  Ten minutes later he woke me up because he had to get ready to go.

"Did she throw up?" I whispered, with both eyes still tightly shut.

Thankfully he had gotten her into the bathroom before the eruption.  He said it was only a little bit, and she said she was fine afterward and wanted to go back to bed.  "Do you want her in here with you?" he asked.

Not really.  I wanted to sleep, dammit, but experience has taught me it's rarely a one and done type of deal.  I knew my reaction time would be delayed by my utter exhaustion and I envisioned the mess it could make.  "Yeah, help me put some towels down and you can bring her in."

Ten minutes later she was in my bed and sound asleep once again.  Maybe I got lucky this time.  Maybe it was just something she ate.  I heard her dad leave for work and glanced at the clock once more.  Six on the nose.  I closed my eyes and quickly fell asleep.

"Mommy! I have to cuke!"

I jumped to my feet and ran for the garbage can in the corner of the bedroom.  While she heaved repeatedly into the bucket, I noticed the clock on the dresser.  Four minutes after six.  I managed to sleep a whole four minutes.  And now I had a puke bucket to clean.  

Not two minutes later, she was settled and back to sleep.  By the time I rinsed the bucket, suppressed my own urge to vomit, and found a comfy spot again in bed, the clock read six-thirty.  I prayed that was the end of it and drifted off to sleep.

"Mommy! I have to cuke!"

I repeated the same jump and dash for the bucket.  Six-forty.  This time I managed ten minutes of sleep, and she was out cold again in no time.  This time I said screw the bucket.  I set it down next to the bed and went back to sleep.  Good thing, because this time she only made it a few minutes.  She was heaving again at six fifty-four.  

The final round came at seven thirty-eight, after which we both slept soundly until eleven-thirty.  Finally a few continuous hours of sleep, but I still felt like I was hit by a train when we crawled out of bed.  And, of course, the first wonderful task at hand was cleaning the bucket.  

I guess December will forever be the month for puke-fests in this house.  Unlike last year, this bout didn't result in a trip to the emergency room.  I didn't have to wash sheets in the middle of the night or scrub vomit out of the carpets; she made the bucket every time.  I didn't have to miss a day of work, but we did have to pass on the annual tree lighting and Santa parade in town this afternoon.  

Now we just sit back and wait to see which of us vomits next.  

Damn stomach bugs.