When Sylvia puked at her Uncle Philip's wedding, she'd been drinking a fruity, cherry-flavored beverage all afternoon, so her vomit pretty much smelled like cherries. Tonight, when Sylvia swallowed her cherry-flavored mouthwash and then puked it and what looked like everything she'd eaten all day, it smelled exactly the same.
I hate that smell.
Fortunately, taking care of vomited-covered bedsheets by myself is much easier at home, with a hose, than in an unfamiliar hotel by myself (Derrick was at the rehearsal--projectile vomit was only a valid excuse for the one of us with no active part to play in the wedding). After stripping Sylvia, bathing her, stripping her bed, and hosing everything off, I took a shower.
Paul enjoyed the shower, too. He's had a nasty cold for the past week that at times has left him wheezing in way that almost sent us to the doctor. Almost. Except for the whole, they can't actually do anything unless it's real respiratory distress (which it wasn't). In case you're wondering, he's feeling better. I have hopes that the shirt I wear tomorrow won't be covered with a network of snot stains.
I haven't told Derrick about Sylvia's puking. I probably won't for a while yet so I don't distract him. You may wonder why he's not experiencing this himself--at the moment he's interviewing for a real job at a university in New Mexico. It's pretty exciting. Even if he doesn't get the job (and he's apparently one of five candidates, so it's far from certain) it's still pretty exciting he's got an interview. I'm glad it'll be over soon, though. Since they informed him of the interview he's had an impossible time sleeping and has been so focused on his talk it's been pretty much the only subject of all conversations with him. Not that the bodily fluids of our children are more interesting to discuss (they're not) but it'll be nice to have him back and capable of listening to the rest of us.