I don’t know what universal law states children must vomit primarily at night, and rarely in the toilet. However, I hate that law. Last night was not quite our typical Monday night. Due to negotiations for buying a house, my husband had missed some work, and was making it up at home. Being the considerate spouse, I took our son to his favorite park, where he promptly burst into tears because there was no one there, and he desperately wanted a playmate. Tears lead to me trying to think of an equivalent treat, and I hit upon the car wash. The car wash is grudgingly accepted as a substitute, and away we go to sample the delights of an automatic foam sprayer.
The car wash has its normal soothing effect on G, and all is well in our world. It isn’t very late, and I don’t feel I have killed enough time, so I take him to TCBY. I had not eaten any supper and was going with the idea that yogurt counts as a meal for a pregnant woman, especially since I need the calcium. We call A to let him know where we are going, and he decides to come hang out and have a family yogurt date with us.
We meet up and make our selections. A gets a hot fudge sunday with all sorts of yummy things like bananas on it. I get a triple berry parfait with cheesecake flavored soft serve yogurt. G chooses the vibrant rainbow cream yogurt. Rainbow cream is a treat for the eyes of the average three year old. It is a vibrant inky blue, reminiscent of blue ink, swirled with play dough yellow, and pagoda pink. It all but screams, “I will stain your clothes and make your poo funny colors!” G loves it. The first bite turns his lips blue, and by the time he has eaten half of his cup of sweet dairy goodness, his hands have followed suit. The table is adorned with inky blue blotches, and A is monitoring the frequency of napkin usage with the desperation only a person still in his or her nice work clothes can feel.
We finish up our yogurt with a minimum of drips and head back home. G has no complaints other than his very runny nose. We get home and it is bath time for the small sticky boy. G gets in the tub, piles in all of his bath toys and proceeds to have a large ocean battle. About halfway through his normal bath time he looks at me and tells me, “Mommy, I have indigestion.” Then he promptly vomits bright inky blue yogurt, and the remains of his supper, right into the bathtub.
I admit, at first I stand frozen, transfixed by the sight of these new polar ice caps encroaching upon the pirate ship and canoe. Then my son’s distress breaks through the wall of utter disgust, I pull him out of the tub and stand him over the toilet to finish up. I wrap him in a towel and call for his daddy to bring me a glass so G can rinse and spit after he finishes expelling the last of the yogurt. Daddy steps up like a pro, fetching water and then drying and dressing the boy so I can drain the tub, rinse the toys, disinfect the tub and bleach the toys. He even reads G his nightly bedtime story and gives him night night kisses. All is well. Operation de-vomit the tub is going smoothly and one of our favorite shows is on television. We retire to the couch to discuss our mutual disgust with blue yogurt vomit, and a television character’s behavior.
Suddenly, there comes a frantic yell of “Daddy! Mommy!” Yes, it has happened again. Thankfully all the blue was expelled earlier. Into the breach goes my husband, my dear sweet husband of 8 months. G comes to me and begins quite calmly pointing out where he has puke on his clothing. A starts stripping the bed, or “ground zero”. Eventually our small person is in clean pajamas, on fresh bedding and is fast asleep. Not long after, so are we.
