Projectile Vomit Sunday

Am I really Superdad or have I just become a character that I write about on the blog? Do I really kick ass and embody everything that is Hoss or am I a muppet baby that grew up, got fat and bald? Could I really withstand the test of reality and be who I write about?

I suppose it’s time to find out because Hossmom has left me. With 2 kids. By myself.

Now that we all think that she is some mindless hoochie who would leave her 2 kids with her unqualified SAHD, let me explain. She left because she loves us. Of course, that’s what all abusers say. But don’t worry, I didn’t really fall down the stairs. It was a ladder.

No Hossmom has gone ahead like a pioneer and has moved to our new city. I will be following in about 30 days. Long story short: we are moving to another state. Hossmom started her new job. My job is to take care of the kids and sell this house and then follow her when she picks out our new house. She’s like Clara Barton. For the record, I don’t really know who that is but I know that she is a pioneering woman from the 1850’s although I think she might be the one that smashed up all the saloons with a hatchet. So yup, that’s kind of like my wife. I like ‘em strong willed.

But back to the story: me alone with the kids for 30 days. Right now I am on day three and have contacted an attorney for divorce papers and am willing to discuss alimony.

Let me paint the picture: a 2 year old and a 4 month old—24 hours a day all by myself. When we first made the decision I put on my charming optimistic smile and told her no problem. I told her it would be harder for her than it would for me. I mean sleeping in late and not getting up in the middle of the night will take a toll on a person.

Hossmom’s company is putting her up in a corporate apartment until we get a house and I move up there. Yes, you should interpret that as “swank pad.” It’s one of those affairs that has the blacktop dining table complete with table settings. There is no baby shit or vomit smell at all in the whole apartment. No one is going to pull her hair or barf on her—which we will get to in a moment.

Meanwhile, I am up to my elbows in 24 hour throw up cleanup. Even the dog puked today on the floor.

But I am writing this so Hossmom will read it on Monday and know exactly what her contribution to the family is.

Let’s start.

Friday was the worst day as a parent I have ever had. Not as a SAHD, but as a parent, ever. Little Hoss decided to go all apeshit all day about everything. And because she has Bubba Hoss fully in her grasp as a toadie, he decided to pitch in.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I snapped. I think every parent does. I once saw my Mom break every dish in our house for something my brother had done. As long as I don’t reach that point, I’m ok. But Friday I wasn’t far off. Let me give you an example:

Little Hoss is in her “independent” stage. This means that she only wants me to watch her do things and offer no help what so ever unless that help involves ice cream. It was pouring down rain. I was trying to get her into her car seat but she wanted to buckle herself in. This takes her about 10 minutes. Most times I am A ok with this. But in this situation I was tired and standing outside the car getting soaked like a Katrina victim. I’m sorry, to soon?

Anyway, I decided fuck it. I’m superdad and I’m making an executive decision. So I “attempted” to buckle her in. This caused a massive freak out. There were legs flailing, punches being thrown at my crotch and I am sure she said “Fuck you, you’re not my real dad.”

I reminded her that she looks EXACTLY like me and she should SHUT UP! That’s right. I yelled at my daughter to shut up. The superdad thing is not looking so well at this point. I then felt bad and proceeded to bribe her with a lollipop which she used to poke Bubba Hoss in the eye with. Ah, memories. I was a toadie myself and my older brother beat the shit out of me when he didn’t get his way. Bubba Hoss, it gets worse. Hang in there kiddo. And since I love you both I can’t intervene because my father never did. It will put hair on your chest.

So all in all, bad day. Then Saturday came and it was somewhat better. Sorry, that’s just a lie that parents tell themselves so they don’t give their kids up for adoption. That day ended with every one of my kids waking up at 2:30am and screaming for no other reason to keep me on my toes. At this point, I am really missing Hossmom.

Then the next day came, which shall forever be referred to as Projectile Vomit Sunday. Little Hoss got sick and began to puke. Everywhere. I swear to all that is holy I have no idea how that much fluid can be inside a 30 pound person. The distance and the height that she was able to obtain was very impressive. The smell was a cross between Asian Stir Fry and dried turd. Very nice.

At this point, I’m not going to lie, I was about to cash it in. I don’t do sick very well. Hossmom does sick and to be honest, this was the first time Little Hoss had the projectile vomit. When I’m sick I just pretend I’m not while Hossmom puts my head in her lap. It’s great. I deny I’m sick and still get the 4 star treatment. However, I don’t care for the sick very well. As a kid if I was sick my dad would make us mix concrete or stack bricks and it would appear I take after him.

But I was trying my best and trying to be superdad. So help me god I was.

Then disaster. Little Hoss was on my lap with her head on my shoulder. She burped, farted, then let the biggest vomit I have ever seen come flying out. It hit my shoulder, head, neck, ear and started leaking down my back.

Then Little Hoss started to cry and my spirit cracked. This is gross but you’ll understand if you have kids. She was crying so hard that my heart just split in two. So I didn’t move. I held my little girl and rubbed her back until it was all out. She didn’t get any on her but I looked like a reject from a B horror film. But my little angel was crying and needed superdad and that’s when I found him, sitting in a pile of puke running down the crack of his ass. However, we need a new couch now honey.

Yup, I’m superdad. No doubt about it.

Although, I’m not super Uncle. That title belongs to Uncle Bricksalesman. Because, um, it was his favorite sweatshirt I was wearing when the puking occurred. I’m sure he’ll be ok with it.

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