My second child as an infant had a talent for unexpected projectile vomiting (perhaps you can see where this is going). Amazing how much stuff can erupt from a small child’s GI tract…
Sitting at dinner with her on my lap, older sister also at the table…first wave all over the dinner table. Second wave all over me. Third wave all over the floor. Baby was fine after.
I sat there rather stunned, with vomit soaking through my clothes, into my underwear and my shoes, all over the plates, all over the floor…I had no idea where to even start…
I found out within the past hour that one of my Facebook friends (a former co-worker) has been trying to have a baby for 11 years.
I should send this to her.
My parents have told me that I was quite the projectile launcher myself as a newborn, until my formula was adjusted. I have compensated by ever since being a person who has upset stomachs so infrequently, I have, on several occasions, not recognized what was going on until it was almost too late.
Double-ended intestinal distress is the worst. I recall laying in the bathtub buck naked spewing from both ends after eating a sandwich I made from very aged eggs and too-old mayo. College was fun times. Except that.
At least my cleanup was easier than yours. Everything was liquid enough that it went down the drain with only a little pushing larger chunks through the strainer. Washing it out of my hair was disgusting though. At least my hair was short.
I just recalled a repressed memory after posting in that thread about customized vagina’s and it’s by far the most disgusting I felt and probably why I repressed it for so long. I went down on a girl once and she didn’t tell me she was on her period. It was dark but I felt the string with my tongue and I recall my first thought as wth is this thing?..then the omg moment happened, it was too late, I earned my red wings the hard way. Why would a girl not tell the guy first?
It’s unlikely that a baby young enough to regularly have projectile vomiting, without other medical issues, would be drinking anything other than milk.
When I was a little kid - four or five, maybe? - we lived waaay out in the country, at the intersection of a little-used dirt road (county maintained,) and a less-used private dirt lane. It was the country, there wasn’t much to do, but it had rained recently, and there were some really nice mud puddles standing right there. My brother, the two kids who lived down the road, and I transformed ourselves into mud monsters. Literally coated every single inch of ourselves into mud, just for the fun of it. (My brother and the two neighbor kids hosed themselves off and made an unholy mess even worse. I actually discovered that scrubbing myself with sand worked brilliantly that day. I got myself clean before Ma and the neighbor kids’ mother caught us, and played innocent while that lot got into trouble! :D)
A few years later, my uncle was draining his pond - I don’t know why, maybe it had silted up, or there were invasive fish he wanted out, or something. Anyway, he offered us kids something like a penny or a nickel for each fish we retrieved from the deep, sticky mud. It was horribly disgusting, but we all made enough $$ to treat ourselves to some junk food that evening - after our mothers made us hose off outside, strip down on the porch, and then go get another long hot shower. I think our clothes were probably boiled to get rid of that muddy, fishy stench.
More recently, just a few months ago: I had spent all evening deep cleaning the house. When I went to bed at o’stupid-thirty, everything was clean. The floors, the walls, the bathrooms, the laundry, the dishes - everything. The next morning, I woke up to an unmistakable smell: the toddler had found a bottle of her sister’s nail polish, OMG! Went running down the hall to stop the inevitable disaster, and learned the hard way that the other, background smell indicated that the dog had also been sick. A great Pyr can produce an awful lot of awful semi-liquid digestive byproducts, and those substances are awfully slippery on a laminate floor. Before my first cup of coffee, I was covered in dog vomit and shit, plus purple sparkly nail polish. Smelled worse than the dead fish!
When I was about 5 I was eating lunch at home with my 3yo brother. We were having Campbell’s tomato soup made with milk. Mom left the room for a few minutes and we decided to have a soup fight. We were using the spoons like mini-catapults to fire spoonful’s of soup across the table at one another. And laughing like maniacs.
Mom knew from sad experience that “kids laughing like maniacs” was code for “come quick; something really messy / dangerous is happening.”
We were covered in soup. It was splattered all over the late 1950s popcorn ceiling. It was all over the tan drapes. It was all over the tan floor. And the dog was helpfully leaving red footprints all over the tan carpet in the next room.
Between the milk & the tomato, there were still dark spots on the ceiling, drapes, and carpet when we sold the place years later. Here 50+ years later I still have a snapshot memory of me firing a spoonful at my bro.
She told that story for years. She later explained that when she first walked in she thought for a moment all the red crap everywhere was blood; it took a couple shocked seconds for her to recognize the soup.
Kids: it’s a darn good thing they’re cute or they’d never survive to puberty.
My brother, who has a master’s in math and a bachelor’s in engineering, liked to take things apart as a child. One time he decided to see what was inside a 6-volt battery. My dad had a workroom, with a vise attached to a tool bench. My brother put the battery in the vise and used pliers or a hammer or something to strip off the metal jacket. Some neighbor kids and I “helped” him with the experiment.
You know what’s inside a 6-volt battery under the shell? A lot of black powder. My mom came down and saw the workroom and several children all coated head to foot in black powder. I will never forget the look on her face. We were all in bed by 6 pm that evening, right after a bath, no dinner…and probably lucky that was all that happened.
Once helped dig out the floor of a shearing shed in outback New South Wales. We must have gone down nearly a foot before hitting dirt. By the end we were all covered in a muddy mix of sweat, dust, sand and powdered sheep shit, plus the place was full of ticks, annoyed spiders and you had to dodge the occasional snake.
Luckily we were next to a river, everyone went in fully clothed to wash off.
I may have mentioned this one before: my brother once found an old emu egg. This thing had been sitting around in the sun for so long it had gone from its natural dark green colour to a dirty white. For reasons still not clear to anyone else he decided he wanted to see what was inside. Rather than throwing it away to break it, he threw it straight up :eek: It landed right in front of him and sprayed him from his feet to his waist with a hellish mix of rotten egg and decayed emu chick slush.
Many years ago I was working as a respiratory therapist at Elko Generic Hospital. I was in the ICU tending to a patient we had recently weaned from the ventilator. He had to poop, and he was sick of using bed pans, so we offered up the bedside commode. His legs were very weak, so he needed two people just to get him off the bed. I offered to help the nurse – she was a good friend of mine and I had started medical work as an orderly, so I knew how to move people around. Jack, the hospital orderly and an old navy corpsman from way back, said “Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” But the patient was insistent (as insistent as an invalid can be) and the nurse wanted to try it too, so we got the guy under the arms and slid him to the edge of the bed, minding all his tubes and wires. I got hold of him from the front, and prepared to make one swift lift and pivot movement to get him on the commode. The second his ass cleared the bed he let loose with about 3 gallons of foul smelling liquid feces, soaking the front of my lab coat, pants, socks, and shoes. Jack was right. I shouldn’t of done it.
I’ve always heard that nurses, etc. are more grossed out by respiratory secretions than they are by, ahem, other discharges - most of the time, anyway. Maybe it’s because we all see poop pretty much every day, but most of us don’t regularly handle sputum, ours or anyone else’s.
