It’s hard to find anyone who likes their own vomit, much less someone else’s. Ah, but one of the joys of having a kid means I get to enjoy someone else’s vomit more often than I would like (which is never). Don’t get me wrong, I think Xander spits up far less than the average baby and for that, I’m very thankful. Something to do with being a Shih and wanting to enjoy food are definitely factors in the below average food backfire. Maybe that has something to do with his ginormous size. But I digress.

Xander set himself up for some fun by pilfering mom’s post-dinner bowl of berries consisting of strawberries and blueberries. I wasn’t really paying attention so I don’t know how much he ate, but it definitely wasn’t just a few bites. Analysis on that later. So we give him his evening shower and are marveling at his fresh outbreak of rashes when Xander decides he’s going to engage in a favorite pastime of his as of late: shoving his fingers (plural) down his throat and engaging the ‘ol gag reflex. Fun for the whole family.

Trouble is, this time, he managed to get something moving and started some minor choke-related coughing. Brilliant. Tam’s now got him held up facing away from her and I’m staring down the barrel of a fully loaded puke machine.

Me: Uh, he’s gonna hurl!

Tam: [silence]

My brain: Oh hell, he’s going to boot right here and it’s going to go all over the bathroom.

Tam: [silence]

My brain: Damned if I’m going to clean the boy’s yak up.

Tam: [silence]

My brain: Be a man, take one for the team.

My pride: Eh?

My brain: You know what needs to be done. Don’t be a chicken.

My pride: Bah.

My brain: Stick your feeble arms out and catch the boy’s vomit in your hands.

My pride: Wake me up with this is over.

The fabric of time ruptures slightly and things start to move slow and fast at the same time. Xander unleashes what can loosely be described as warm Jamba Juice suspended in light tapioca and there I am making the catch like it’s liquid gold. I’ve got my hands tightly cupped together and nary a drop hits the floor. He fills my hands all the way up. Yes, ALL THE WAY UP. And I don’t have small hands either. Next thing I know I’m kicking up the toilet seat and cover and flinging the mess in horror/awe/fascination/disgust. That’s my story and I’m standing by it.

Thanks kiddo — your mom isn’t going to let me forget about this one for a long time to come.