How to tell if love is true

Betty Everett would have me believe it’s in his kiss. And that’s a pretty great theory. There’s only one small problem, and maybe I’m alone in this, but really I don’t want to kiss anyone unless I’m drunk; in which case I want to kiss everyone.

And if you thought that was a massive over-share this post is not for you, my friend, because it’s about to get downright grotty.

Back when I was just a witchling, only a few weeks out of the nest (or wherever witches spawn) I ate some bad fried rice and it did to me what bad fried rice does to a person. I came to consciousness mid-spew and didn’t even have enough life-experience to appreciate how great it was that we didn’t have carpet.

The toad I was dating approached, to comfort me I was sure, but the only comfort he offered was to tell me that our other housemate would bring me rubber gloves. The disbelief is vivid to this day. Keeling there, sopping up the vomit with a rag and bucket, trying not to puke again and add to the mess, and I thought to myself “Ok, this is adulthood.”

I didn’t even resent him. I didn’t think anything of it until years later. I just accepted that this was what being a woman was all about and made a bigger effort to have a bucket nearby if there was no chance of getting to the bathroom in time.

Once I got out of that relationship, stopped living with a chain-smoker and learned some basic things about hygiene and nutrition I suddenly wasn’t ill half as much, but of course you can’t have all the luck all the time. Years later, in a different country, I was making friends with a $1 plastic bucket from Super Store. I was sick enough that I have very little recollection of that time, but the one thing I do recall is how I felt when Dear Hart brought me back my clean, empty bucket. Realisation hit. I cried. I remember thinking that he was the best most perfect man on earth. If I had to pin-point it, I would say this was the exact moment I knew he was “the One.”

My friends, it isn’t in his kiss at all. It’s in the bucket. Or more correctly, it’s what’s not in the bucket. If you want to know if he loves you so pay attention to how he cares for you when you’re sick.

Now, why exactly am I writing a blog about vomit? Let’s just say it’s been on my mind a lot this week. On my mind, my clothes, my skin and on the bus. I leveled up my parenting skill by at least a hundred points in the last five days.

I never thought I’d hear myself say “don’t worry about my shirt sweety, just let it out.” I wouldn’t have believed that someone could make me love them more by laying chest to chest with me and heaving onto my neck. Not to mention how proud I am of Artemis; she’s not yet three but she managed to “smook” in the toilet all but the first time.

Best kid ever.

I know it’s nothing. It’s just a fact of life. No one wants to read puke stories. I don’t care. Right now this is my entire world.

I could get all woe-is-me, I could make a post about how tired I am, about how sore my back is from bending over the cot and carrying Elen all day, about how I can still smell spew but I can’t find the source… but it would be a lie. – Ok, not that last part, this unit fucking reeks – But the rest of it.

I actually feel really blessed. Last night I sent a prayer of thankfulness of out into the universe for that random mother who pinches stacks of giant plastic bags from Kmart and came to my rescue on the bus, bagging up my veggies so they didn’t get covered in the partly digested milk and beans dripping down from the seat of the pram. Then separately bagging the sodden romper and blanket, helping me wipe down myself, Elen, the floor, and finally assisting us all get off the bus; even offering her own kid’s blanket up because my baby looked like she needed it more.

I’m am so grateful for that warrior woman, and all the other champions in my community who offered help rather than criticism while I struggled to get home. I am humbled by the sweet baby hugs and the strength of little girls who wait patiently in the shower while I find yet another set of fresh sheets for their beds. I am blessed with a husband who rushes home from work early to take his baby to the doctor and make us all dinner, and eternally supported by my other co-parent who drops off supplies when I can’t leave the house.

It was actually kind of nice spending a whole day doing nothing but breastfeeding like I had a newborn again; it’s probably the last time I will get to do that in this incarnation. It was cool to let the kids watch as many movies as they wanted and to let the routine go. To just shirk all my writing work for a week and focus on my babies and what they needed from me moment to moment. And even when I got sick too and couldn’t manage to cook myself something to eat I relished wearing pyjamas all day and not having to leave the house.

Life is good, even when it is shit. It doesn’t get any more perfect than that.