barf with barf on it and then a little barf on the side
Have you ever seen a geyser of vomit gush from the mouth of your offspring? I have done. Today, in fact. Just this very morning. On a drive in the country. Sun shining, Birds chirping, All is well.
Until.
From the front seat Husband and I hear:
Cough, cough. Coooough, hack, cough. Pause. Coughcoughcough.
Son, we say, be careful. Cough gently, we say. We didn't sound the least bit annoyed out of having been cleaning up barf for days on end and not wanting to do so any more. We're better than that.
Cough, cough, coughity cough.
Son, really, slow down.
COUGH, cough.
Are you ok?
Cough, hack, barf.
Oh My God!
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARF.
OH. MY. GOD. PULL. OVER.
Barf, glug, glug, barf, barf, glug, glug.
It's ok, honey, mommy is here.
PULLOVERISAID!
At least the boy had the decency to undergo this fit of overindulged ahem.hem.hemming just as we approached a small town wherein there be a Subway and said Subway saw more of my son's breakfast than they would have ever imagined. I'm no scientist and don't claim to know math but I adamantly believe that everything he injested prior to the volcanus episode of milk and bran flakes must have gathered and multiplied while resting in his belly before their exodus from his wee frame. Because I was with the child from dawn until this time and he did not, I repeat, did not ingest that much of anything.
His jacket was soaked, his shirt beneath the jacket was soaked, his tummy beneath the shirt beneath the jacket was soaked. His pants were drenched. His car seat was a river of milky vomit. The seat in front of him splattered with specks of white.
In the bathroom of the Subway, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for it's Being There, I removed my t-shirt of pink and baby blue to replace his unwearable clothes and covered him further with Husband's North Face Black Fleece Jacket which fell to mid calf on the boy. It was thus he reappeared from the Ladies Room and walked back to our truck. All diginity for not having any idea, at three years of age, that this was most humiliating. And Mommy sure didn't let on. Let the truck drivers stare.
By the way, this all happened again later but this time he made it to the bathroom in our very own house before issuing forth 2 glasses of chocolate milk. Thanks Kid!
By the way No. 2, I had a sweatshirt to wear in place of my pink and blue t-shirt. Rest easy, the truckers did not find their breakfast suddenly improved by the sight of me prancing through in the nude.
posted by Style Me Organized at
Friday, November 19, 2004
