In which I use the word 'vomit' eight times too many
“You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.” ~Franklin P. Jones
The first time it happened, I had a boiled egg for breakfast. I knew I didn’t feel well and I told el madre* that I wasn’t well and she told me to get my ass on the bus, but of course didn’t use the word ass for she isn’t a heathen like her daughter. So I got on the bus and someone had hocked the world’s largest loogie on the floor next to me. I took one glance at it and then threw up all over the aisle of the bus. And as we continued to drive a long, it splashed down the aisle accompanied by the screeching of 40 or so elementary aged children. I was promptly brought to Mrs. Ostrander’s office and sent home.
The second time it happened, I was in 8th grade, approximately six years after the first time. That day I knew for a fact that I was in dire need of gingerale and bucket close to my bed and once again el madre shot me the glary eyed look of death that bore holes into my skull and I suddenly was chipper and went on the bus. And approximately 20 minutes later, threw up all over my clarinet case. Again, it went sloshing down the aisle towards the front. When I got off the bus, Jason Stewart, the boy that I had been in love with for two years, stopped to ask me what’s up and give me a hug and I pushed him away because the puke was dripping off of my clarinet case. I was promptly brought to the Nurse’s office and sent home.
I have a general rule that I do not do well with vomit. Once I see vomit, I will vomit, rinse and repeat. For years though, at the drop of the flu, when it – the vomit - was coming out at an alarming and quick fire pace, I could never figure out why my mother would run and greet me with a look of sheer terror. It was like she couldn’t stand to be around me at that time. And instead of soothing me with her gentleness, she would stare at me horrified as if the devil had taken over and was spewing things out of me and well when my head turned 360 degrees, that was the end. If I recall correctly the great kitchen incident of 2002, when G literally had it coming out of everywhere and instead of calming holding her second born and favorite, she hollered at him to not move one inch lest he wouldn’t die of dehydration but because she stabbed him in the face with the heel of her boot because he dared track vomit throughout her kitchen. That’s love, people.
Like I said, I don’t do well with the puke but always assumed that love conquers all and I could be there and be comforting for a little person who had things that he had eaten like two weeks ago coming out of his mouth. So when my poor sweet baby boy**, threw up all over me and the floor last night and then came out into the living room to come find me because all he wanted to do was be held. I turned and said to him, with wide eyes “Dude! Step away”. While he looked pitiful and sad he had his entire dinner (Yes, yogurt comes out in white chunks) all over him and it was on my pants and then he stepped in it. STEPPED IN IT…and so I possibly yelped some more and told him not to move because I needed to asses the situation and not end up with vomit all over my dry clean only sweater. I am nothing if not a loving person and apparently exactly like my mother.
*I’m going to start referring to her as ‘El Madre’ because it’s nicer than using her first name. Formally, “El Madre all around bad ass and coach lover extraordinaire”. For that title commands respect, yo.
**And by 'my' I mean, not mine really. Though I do love him immensely, he is not my actual child.