On Wednesday, Chooch announced that he was awake from his afternoon nap by emitting a blood-curling wail. Running up the stairs, the only rational explanation I could come up with was that Marcy’s inner succubus had emerged and she was finally carrying out her plot to eradicate the bane of her existence. When I reached his room, I found him standing in his crib, tears and snot squirting out all over the place. He pointed next to him and sobbed, “LOOOOOK!!!” Oh my god, she tried to kill him and he killed her first, was my first hypothesis.
“Mommy I PUUUUUUKKKKKKED!!” he wailed, and that was when I saw what he was pointing to was not the grisly corpse of a murdered cat, but an orange pool of vomit glistening and stinking on his mattress. Oh, yummy. I picked him up, tried to mask my disgust and horror so I could properly comfort him, when his body started racking and quaking and I had .0009 seconds to suspend him over the bathroom sink before he began projectiling.
This was his first kid-puke, as opposed to the not-too-rank baby stomach-spooge that consists of nothing more than liquid and perhaps some strained greenbeans. This puke, this delicious toddler puke, was not nearly as friendly and served as a billboard for everything he ate that day. It was seriously all I could do to keep myself from succumbing to the Vomit Chain. This went on for the next four or five hours; Chooch burping up vomit in a bowl held by my shaky, clammy hands, to the melodious tune of strangulating “blarrrrrrrrr”s.
The first two or three times, as I tenderly rubbed his back and tried not to cry, I engaged in an inner monologue that went something like this:
Oh, poor kid. If I could puke for him, I would. Huh. What a completely selfless and maternal thought to think. I won’t even give that kid the cherry off my sundae, and now I’m wishing I could be his puking proxy? Oh my god, I’m becoming a mother. I mean, obviously I’m a mother, but now I’m acting like one? I think that means I’m growing old. Time to add the best of American Idol, Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand to my playlist. Ok, I admit that Barbra’s already on there. That album she recorded with the Bee Gees was so masterful. Do I have to cut my hair real short now, I wonder? Oh ew, he’s puking on my hand. Jesus Christ. No, not on the cat! Oh fuck it’s my turn to puke. I want Henry to get ice cream. No, pie. No…ice cream.
That kid is so fucking weird. Every time he’d finish expelling his stomach contents, he’d push the bowl at me and forcefully demand, “Put it on the table! I’m done. Wash my hand off! I playin’ cars.” And then he’d slide off the couch and play with his toys with the aggression of a kid who had NOT just been puking his guts up. Henry and I kept trying to coax him to sit on the couch and relax, but he’d have no part of that. He wanted to go-go-go. So he’d play for a half an hour, and then proceed to fill up the bowl with more sick-juice like it was an everyday thang. After the second time, he managed to puke without even crying, which is something I certainly have yet to master. I mean, I puke and then proceed to curl up in a pathetic ball on the bathroom floor and pray for the demons to take my soul. Not my kid. He pukes with all the verve and determination of Rambo. I half-expected grenades, nails and Clint Eastwood’s brass balls to be landing in his puke bowl.
That kid, he’s kind of my hero.