I have been waiting for my 8th grader to crash. Last night was the Middle School play, for which he was on Tech Crew, arriving home at 9:30 to do his Math homework. The night before, he attended a high school open house after showing up at school early for robotics, then working on Tech Crew after school, eventually coming home at 9:00 to take an online Science test. The night before that, a two-hour basketball practice. His first of the season.
On Friday night, he will get home from basketball practice at 8:30, then wake up early Saturday for an all-day robotics competition. He’s been putting in a lot of hours across the board.
But he has been full of energy through it all. With an “I’m good!” anytime I asked if he needed help or wanted to wait until morning to complete assignments.
Last night was the same. Chatty. Feeling great about the play. “I’m good!” The Math, he claimed, was easy.
Then just before midnight…
“Mom, I threw up.” All over both levels of his bunk bed.
Sigh. I pulled on socks and a sweatshirt to survive the chill after sleeping deeply in my warm bed. Took a look at the damage, then headed to the kitchen for Clorox wipes and paper towels, where…
…the floor surrounding the dishwasher was flooded with soapy bubbles.
And the first thought that entered my head (after “I’m going to kill whoever put the wrong soap in the dishwasher”) was that if anyone has the right to cry it’s him. Not me.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered at me. Not crying.
Deep breath before re-entering the vomit-y bedroom. “We’ve got to wake up Dad” to divide and conquer.
Together, we cleaned up the bubbles on the kitchen floor. Threw our son’s blankets in the shower, then to the laundry. Clorox wiped the bedroom floor. Then cleaned out the chunks collected at the shower drain. Took out the trash. Put together a comfy bed on the floor for our very tired boy, who fell instantly back to sleep.
Then back in our own room, “I can’t fall back to sleep.”
“Me neither. I’m not good at throw up.”
“And my stomach hurts.”