Both have strong odors, but one tastes better than the other. One I ate for lunch and the other Elspeth expelled in the middle of last night. Both, in their freshest form, causes me hard work, but one outcome looks good on noodles and the other. . .
Well, I'll spare you the rest. Despite my regular engagement with world news and literature, I find myself often relfecting on the basic fundamentals--such as the scent of child-vomit. (DELIGHTFUL, old chap.)
There are certain things that I will associate with my children being small, and one of them is the scent, the sight, the epic journey of bodily fluids. It's incredible, actually, how such fluids become acceptable conversation among parents of our acquaintance and at auspicious occasions, say, a holiday or birthday party or a nice dinner. "Say," starts one parent as the others taste the first course, "Did I tell you so and so [fill in bodily function] last night?
"You think that's bad," counters the other, and the discussion is in full swing, each story more wildly disturbing than the other until dessert ends with a wild free-for-all of tossing-cookies and poop and spit-up and goodness knows what, delivered with the same gusto with which single, hip people our age describe an especially challenging hike or sky-dive.
Somehow this is all socially acceptable. It's like a first trip to another country--you end up discussing stomach problems more than world peace or justice or the economy. I suppose it follows, since if the stomach's not right, nothing else is worth thinking of. You can live with a broken heart, after all, or a guilty conscience, but you can only cramp and upchuck so long without begging the Almighty to take you home.
And if there's anything worse than feeling your own stomach heave, it's watching your three-year or nine-month old's stomachs heave. One you can endure in quiet, the other you have simply no control over.
(Did I mention this Christmas, when EVERY single house guest--and there were nine of those and five of us, came down with a horrible stomach virus? We took a wee break to fit in Christmas day and continued on from there).
Luckily this little bug is trifling, and therefore worthy of no real gut-groans, just an irritation in the middle of a snowy, cold, wintry week.
Viva la ginger ale.
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1 comment:
Wow.
Brought back memories of our own lad's childhood.
Like the time we gave him strawberry Nestle's Quick, and I raced down the hall with him on my shoulder in a desperate race to the bathroom.
A losing race.
He barfed all down my back and all the way up the hall.
On our brand new just laid silver gray carpet.
Oh, what fun it is parenting sometimes!
Now you know you have made it impossible for me to enjoy my favorite Chicken Parmesan for at least six months.
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