The third kid is sick

As empty-nesters, my husband and I have enjoyed the simple things that come with having no children in the house--early bedtimes and late mornings, quiet., no nagging or whining, and less responsibility and stress.

That's what we envisioned. The reality, however, is that we forgot about the dog. The P-E-T.

Elliot is our third child and more like a baby than a teen in that he can't verbally communicate. He does, however, communicate. He pokes or scratches my thigh and leg when he has to potty. He bangs his water bowl when it's empty. He barks loudly and ferociously when someone is at my door. But then--sometimes--he throws all of that at me, and he has water, doesn't need to potty, and the porch is empty of strangers. Yesterday was one of those days.

Elliot whined. He came into my office several times to stand and look at me, giving me little, high-pitched whines. I took him outside, he did his business, and so I thought all was right with his world. 

Apparently not. 

Back to the office, he came, standing by my side, whining, poking, whining, poking. His pitiful little mews got under my skin.

Me: "AAAAAHHHH, what do you want? What is the matter? What is happening? I've taken you outside. I've played with you. I've scratched you. What? WHAT? I'm working here!"

Later that night, 11:15 p.m., to be exact, as I lay listening to my husband snore, Elliot communicated by vomiting on our bedroom floor. It's a sound a mother knows immediately whether it's accompanied by a cry or not. I jumped up, flipped on the light, and discovered he'd made more than one pile.

I shrieked. This dog is my husband's baby. While I love the dog and he tolerates me, these two have a love affair like no other. The dog gets more love than I do from my husband, and he, in turn, receives more attention from the dog than I do. I have accepted this--never more so than last night because...uh...your dog!

Me: "TOM! TOM! Your dog is vomiting all over the bedroom. STOP HIM FROM EATING IT!"

I left the room to get the necessary equipment--paper towels, a plastic bag, a towel, and carpet cleaner--and when I returned, the dog had eaten his second pile of vomit and was currently working on the first while my husband stood blinking sleepily in the hallway.

Dude, if it came up once, it'll come up again. Hello?

The husband went to work on the floor. If and when he was able to wake up during our children's bouts of illness, this was his job--mainly because it annoyed him when the children didn't puke into the toilet. He'd clean the floors and go back to bed feeling accomplished, I guess, while I dealt with the sick child.

Not this time. 

This time I made sure Tom was numero uno in the care department and the vomit clean-up, although I did assist because I didn't care for his method.

Elliot, meanwhile, proceeded to vomit two more times on the carpet, once while Tom was putting away his cleaning supplies. Snicker. Snicker. The dog vomited again on the bare floor and several times once I got him outside. I gave a running commentary the entire time because I'm an expert in dealing with sick kids.

Me: "I told you not to let him eat it. He'll puke it right back up. See, what did I tell you? Common sense, dear, common sense. Use the paper towels to pick up the chunks and use the bag to toss in the paper towels. I brought the cleaner and the wet towel to clean the carpet. Use the wet towel, not the paper towel. Watch him! Watch him! He's nosing around. That means he's going to blow. TOM! I told you. I told you. I know the signs. There he goes again. For heaven's sake. Why would you think this was the end? The end comes when he pukes up nothing but bile. That will be a bit later."

I left the two of them sitting outside, and while I wanted to climb back into bed and go to sleep to prove a point after making the smart-ass comment about it being his turn to stay up with the sick kid, but I couldn't do it. Was this what the poor dog had been trying to tell me all day? I lay in bed with the lights on worried I'd missed the signs and worried about the cause until man and dog returned inside. We turned off the lights at 12:30.

This morning I set out to find a way to clean the carpet because as much scrubbing as my husband did, there were still buried, yellowed circles on my carpet. I found a site suggesting a mixture of warm water, salt, vinegar, detergent, and rubbing alcohol, and IT WORKED--like magic. It was so damn good I used it on every vomit stain that has soiled my carpet over the years. I'm not sure how well it will do on those stains, but I highly recommend it for new stains. Here is the link.

For empty-nesters who've filled the void with a P-E-T--Psst...they're more work than the kids.