Considering Vomit

(This is one of the most popular posts from my own blog, so I've decided to repost here for you all.  A little about me: I'm a 27-year-old first time mom and I just had my baby on January 4th of this year.  Thank goodness he is a sweet, easy baby--because, as you will read below, he put me through the ringer during my pregnancy.  Hope you enjoy.

Regards,
Mommysaurus Rex)

If you have a weak stomach and you're still with me in spite of the post title, now is a good time stop reading.  It's going to get gross.  I promise.


Let me begin by wondering what big shot decided it should be called morning sickness.  I got a little queasy in the mornings sometimes, but at least for me, the big show never happened until the evening. There were two main times I'd get sick: if I really got to crying and when I was cleaning up at night at the farmer's market stand where I worked part time.

It was an Italian stand and we specialized in all sorts of tasty sandwiches and pasta dishes.  The market was open Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays and my schedule was always the same.  I'd come in Thursday after I was done teaching summer school (I'm a public school teacher)  and work until closing, Friday from lunchtime until closing (usually about 8 or 9 hours), and then Saturday from lunchtime until closing (most days only 4 or 5 hours).  Thursdays, I was in the habit of fixing myself one our sandwiches and having a little dinner before I started my shift.

There were two sandwiches I craved most while I was pregnant.  One was a pastrami and Swiss. The other was the italiano panini--salami, pepperoni, capicola, two thick slices of tomato, two slices of fresh mozzarella, and pesto, all grilled to perfection between two thick slices of French bread.  Usually, I could eat either one of these with no negative repercussions.

One week it had been particularly hot.  Every single day clocked in above 90 degrees and that meant the market was even more stifling--it was a gorgeous old historic building fairly newly renovated and outfitted with all the modern necessities.  But sadly, that week Mother Nature won out over the building's air conditioning system.  Now add to that the fact that, at our stand, we were stupid enough to stand behind the counter and cook hot food.

I started out that Thursday just like any other.  Came in to the market, made myself an especially tasty italiano panini, sat and ate it, and then got to work.  I felt fantastic for my entire shift which was a good thing because we were unusually busy for a Thursday evening.  I was energetic; I was on top of those orders; I was ringing the register; I was kicking ass and taking names.  Then the night was over and it was time to clean up.  The second I stopped buzzing around the stand, pregnancy caught up with me and my stomach got to churning.

All of the "gross" jobs in the stand were reserved for the end of the night--covering the food in the display case with plastic wrap, putting the food in the fridge, washing the dishes, sweeping the floor.  I already had the good sense to tell my boss I couldn't do the dishes--something about watching those food particles slide down the drain, I just couldn't stomach--and I set to covering the food in display case.  My mind knew the food was delicious, but with every dish I wrapped, my stomach churned harder and harder.  Finally, I simply could ignore it no longer.  I dashed out from behind the stand and started running toward the prep kitchen--it belonged to the restaurant on the floor above us--where there was a small lavatory.

Looking back now, months later, I'm still surprised that I actually managed to make it most of the way to the commode.  That's right, I said 'most of the way.'  Up came the sandwich that had been so very tasty just a few hours earlier.  All the Italian meats.  Bits of tomato.  And the pesto.  Oh the pesto!  For as little as there had been on the sandwich, it did quite a job coating everything a horrific hunter green.  It was all green and it was everywhere. On my shoes. In my hair. On my shirt.  Spattering the front of my apron.  All over the tile floor.  Stomach still reeling, I cleaned myself off as best as I could, rinsed out my mouth and let myself into the custodian's closet.  I mopped up my devastation stopping to dry heave every few seconds.

As I walked back to the stand my boss looked at me and opened his mouth as if to ask what had taken me so long.  Instead, noticing that my lips were the same chalk white as the rest of my face, what he said was, "Oh man...go home."

So I did and to this day I still cannot eat an italiano panini nor do I dare to even think about pesto. The things we go through to bring a beautiful life into this world!