On a daily basis, your child's no-like-it-no-want-it eating habits make you want to slam yourself in the head with a skillet.
So when your little one spends the day rejecting every food item you bring near her, you don't think much of it.
That is, until she hops up and vomits like a fucking geyser right before your eyes.
Puke drips off her. Puke drips off you. Puddles of sick pool atop her lovely, spendy Pottery Barn rug. Remember that scene from Stand By Me, you know, the one with the pie-eating contest? You fear that minus the pie, that could very well be your house.
Gobsmacked, you stand blinking in disbelief. "Is this really happening. TO ME?!!!" you ask. Maybe if you go catatonic for long enough it will all disappear like a bad dream. Meanwhile, the precious fruit of your loins looks weak and frightened. Any other time you would scoop her up, clutch her to your breast and cuddle away the pain.
But, like money, vomit changes everything.
Instead, you stare at her like she's covered in boils. Inappropriate thoughts course through your mind.
Here are 10 examples:
- Right now, babe, you're one of those reasons people don't have kids.
- Sweet Mother Mary, there sure is a lot of food in there for someone who never eats a goddamn thing!
- @#$&! Now look at my sofa/rug/bed/outfit/bag! One more thing RUINED!
- Do you think we could sell the house right this second as is?
- And you can't even AFFORD a stomach bug, you're in the 5th percentile! Why not meeeeeeee?!!!!!
- How would YOU like it if Mommy threw up on you, or one of your dolls, or something?
- You so would have to do this at bedtime/just before nap/when I need to leave for work.
- You think you can stand there long enough for me to go give myself a Hazmat shower?
- A one-way ticket to Guam is looking really good right now.
- If I let you sleep in my bed and you throw up, I swear we’re both going out the window.
But soon reality kicks in. As does the auto-pilot of parental compassion and duty. You wash your floor. You scrub rugs and take them up. You soak and wash bedding and clothing. (Or you leave that to your iron-stomached partner.)
Most importantly, you clean and comfort your child.
After the room smells like a shrine to Lysol or Clorox or white vinegar, you realize that not too far down the road, your kid will be able get to the toilet, or at least to a bucket, to vomit.
You realize that even farther down the line, she may be worshipping the porcelain Gods because of a stint as Miss Ahluvta Partay. Even though part of you sees that moment and thinks "Vengeance is mine!" you still hope she has someone there to hold her hair -- someone to make it all better.