Each day with children is an adventure, but when you’ve got one that’s not of your biological issue, then it’s a mini-psychology experiment in nature vs. nurture.
I discovered something today. Emetophobia (that is the fear of or anxiety around vomiting) is inherited. I have a nonchalant barfer. That doesn’t even compute in my mind. How could you not care, or even notice? Apparently it involves sitting up briefly, rolling to the other side of the bed, and going back to sleep. It didn’t even warrant a mention. Luckily it was laundry day. Well, not lucky for me.
I don’t see how it’s even possible. My post-purge involves highly specialized rituals of intermittent sobbing and wailing, bathing, gargling, disinfecting, laying just so with a hot water bottle, propping my head up with extra pillows, and lying ever-so still.
I am a sympathetic vomiter, too. Just writing about it is making me nauseous.
It must be nice not to be impacted by it at all, but I do wonder if lack of trepidation in this area will make shots of Creme de Menthe seem like a good idea?