Monsters on the Wall

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I heard moaning and the distinct floor creeks announcing the urgent pitter-patter of little feet racing toward me. When I blearily looked at the clock red fuzzy lines across my room, they formed somewhat of a 4 a.m. shape.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! I hafta go pee pee!!!” a potty-dancing Destroy whimpered. He darted into the bathroom and I waved him back to bed with a hug. I thought that was the end of that.

It wasn’t.

Several minutes later his wails once again pierced the night. I let one go. Maybe he was just settling. But his cries only grew louder. I stumbled down the hallway to tuck him back in. (Maybe his brother could still get some sleep.)

Destroy was sitting up. “I threw up,” he moaned pitifully.

My sleepy stupor quickly became the dancing tiptoe prance reserved to avoid stray Legos and bodily fluids. “Where?”

“On the caterpillar,” he sobbed.

Now I had to worry about bugs?! (May I remind you of the time?) Ultimately I found a mild amount of spittle on a 3-foot stuffed blue agricultural pest wearing shoes. Phew. He’d just coughed a little to aggressively.

I deposited the soiled bug in the washing machine and went back to bed.

Five minutes later, Destroy came racing back into the room. “There’s a monster on the wall!” He was practically hyperventilating.

Jon was sent on monster patrol. Beds, closets, walls were tactically swept and cleared.

But the moment Jon pulled the covers back up over us, Destroys screams cracked through the silence once again.

“Monsters! They’re everywhere! THERE’S MONSTERS EVERYWHERE!”

He was truly panicked. He was sitting up again. Shaking. “Monsters, Mommy. Make the monsters go away.” I hugged my terrified child, trying to calm him. The heat of his fear was literally radiating off of him. He was burning up.

“I threw up,” he muttered.

“I know, sweetie,” I comforted him. “It’s ok. We’re washing the caterpillar.”

“No, not yet.” He gagged. He’d gotten his tenses wrong. He was in process of throwing up.

I scooped him up. He puked on me. I handed him to Jon, to race him to the bathroom. He puked on Jon.

As the clock continued to tick forward, I moved to clean myself, the floor and little man’s bed of the upchuck that was disturbingly reminiscent of the Chuck E Cheese’s pizza and birthday cake from the previous night’s party.

His fever was 102. It wasn’t food poisoning.

After Destroy and all within his puking vicinity was de-arfed, I tucked Destroy back into bed with Daddy. Dawn was fast approaching and despite our normal (there’s that word again) reservations against allowing tiny people in our bed, those last few hours of snuggle time were the final hope against the monster hallucinations.

As my boys went back to sleep, I got ready for the long day ahead. After I got ready I checked on my sleeping angels. Any question on whether or not Destroy was truly sick was vanquished simply by taking note of the fact he was lying still.

I kissed his hot little head. He still didn’t move.

Then I heard his little moan, “I need my bucket.”

“Are you going to throw up again?” I quickly grabbed for the mixing bowl turned barf bowl, while simultaneously mentally planning out my change of clothes in case of vomit stains.

“No,” he mumbled simply. He grabbed the large bowl and fell back asleep cuddling the barf bowl.

Just before I left, I pulled up the morning news where I was greeted with the headline “This Year’s Batch Of Flu Shots Might Not Fight Current Flu Strain That Well

Well then. So glad I dragged my guys to get that flu shot. I suppose I deserved to get puked on for that.

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