Friday, January 06, 2006
Earlier this evening, I was working in the home office when I heard my wife call out my name in that tone, instantly recognizable to all parents, that indicates the $#!& has hit the fan. I saved my work (safe computing before all else) and hustled downstairs. A glimpse into the dining room revealed DD in her highchair and DW standing holding the tray away from both of them in the universal manner that indicates ...here there be vomit. "Get something to clean her up", DW calls. I hurry to comply and when I return to the dining room I am able to take a closer look at the carnage. DD's left sleeve is covered and there's a fist size pile in her lap. The highchair tray is covered with a similar quantity. Not much for you or I but sizable for a one year old. Just as I arrive, however, she hurls again. Soundlessly, a tube of partially digested mystery lunch arcs down from her mouth and joins its cousin in her lap. The smell of bile and overcooked meat fills the room. Quickly, DW and I strip her out of her onesie and clean off her face and neck. I hold our diaper-clad daughter to my chest and grab a blanket from the pack-n-play while my noble wife starts the clean up effort. A few minutes later, DD gags and pushes herself away from my shoulder. Once again her mouth opens and emits a stream of hurlage. I don't think I could have contained it all even if I had had both hands free and the composure/lunacy to try to catch it. Instead, the gack landed securely in the crook formed between her body and my prodigious belly. I began walking her from the living room to the kitchen, where my saintly wife had moved on to rinsing the outfit that was the first victim of the evening's retch-fest. No sooner did I arrive at her side, when DD yacked again, and again it was voluminous. I am convinced that the episodes had by now produced regurgitations equal to her own weight. Freshly cleaned, DD was laid in the pack-n-play by my wife while I added my sweat- & tee-shirts to the growing pile of debris. How could she possibly have had that much food in her body in the first place? At least it was all out now. ...or so I thought, for as I was donning a nice, clean, dry shirt, the puke-o-rama was claiming another victim, this time in the form of the pack-n-play sheet. Should we call FEMA? DW and I continued the cleaning -- okay, it was still mostly DW -- and joked about the evenings events. We heard a happy coo from the other room and I remarked that at least everything seemed to be hunky-dory now. DW replied, "Don't you mean chunky-dory?"