breaking up with barf.

I can honestly say that I love going a day without any run-ins with my newest bff, vomit. He likes to go by other names, like barf, puke, throw-up, the likes. We have spent many days and nights together over the past few months… and have developed quite the relationship. 

Have I ever told you about the many disaster dates that lead to husband and I falling in love? I will. I think Mr. Barf had the idea that if we had a few unfortunate adventures together, the same thing would eventually happened.

It all started when I discovered morning sickness was a lie.

It should be called all day, every day sickness.

One particular morning, I was puking rather viciously, when all of a sudden, my puke jumped out of the toilet, and onto my face. Scratch that. It didn't just land on my face. The vomit strategically found its way directly into both of my open eyes.

"GAAAHHHHH. Oh my gosh!! What just happened???! Husband! I think I'm blind!!"

"What??"

"It BUUUUUURNS!!"

Husband had no idea what had happened. I rinsed my eyes out, to no avail. I stumbled like a drunk man the whole 5 steps from the bathroom to the bedroom. I clawed my way to the top of the bed and curled up. I thought my eyes had been burned through from the acid and wondered if I'd ever see again. 

"What are you doing?" He asked me.

"I threw up in my eyes."

He didn't even ask how that was possible.

Another morning, I happened to still be figuring out how to deal with this explosive vomiting conundrum. I started sleeping with a bucket next to my bed. I remember not feeling well and thinking, gotta run. 

I didn't run. I also managed to completely neglect the ever-so-convenient bucket next to me.

The first hit was the bathroom door. I was mortified. It kept coming. At least I'm in the bathroom. I spewed on the floor. It hit the wall. It wasn't stopping. I ran to the sink. It was the same distance from the toilet as it was to the sink, but I thought I would enjoy scooping chunks out of the sink later so decided to choose that route. 

I cried. I felt so bad for myself. I was home alone, and now not only was I throwing up on the walls, floor, doors and sink, but I was going to have to be the one to clean it up. 

Most of the chunks were little clumps of saltines. I got some napkins to pick it up and transport it to the toilet. The thought of what I was doing finally registered and my stomach produced just enough acid for me to fling myself at the toilet while it made it's way up. 

I cried again. I needed a soda.

I opened a ginger ale and took a sip. Refreshing. I took another one. 

Then I threw up.

I am more than happy to announce that Mr. Barf must have recognized the lack of reciprocation on my part. I began taking as many anti-nausea pills as was permitted. At about week 14, I woke up with nothing but a little rumbling of the stomach.

Breaking up has never felt so good.