Warning: Do not read during lunch or if squeamish.
Yesterday, The UmBlog referenced a story on the Fat Cyclist about one of the many pleasures of parenthood --- sick, vomiting children. At the end of his entry, Mr. Cyclist asked readers to send in their own “barf” tales. With 49 responses thus far on Fat Cylist, I decided to post my icky story here instead.
Katherine the Great was about two years old. It was 7:00 AM and I decided to take care of some early shopping errands at Bradlees, a now defunct discount store. Having finished breakfast (that included scrambled eggs), we headed to the Shopping Plaza. Part way through the store, Miss Katherine began to complain about a “tummy ache.” As I progressed through the store, these grumblings only got worse, so I cut my trip short and drove home. Upon pulling in the driveway and opening the door next to my toddler, the “tummy ache” began to manifest itself as projectile vomit. Do you have any idea what scrambled eggs look like after only 30 minutes or so in the stomach of a toddler? They are almost entirely unchanged. It is amazing.
Now, since my daughter was rarely sick, this was her first adventure with vomit, and she did not like the way it felt (or looked). Also, she understood that her body produced only one type of solid matter --- poop. In addition, since scrambled eggs are yellow, the vomit was yellow. So, naturally, she named the vomit “yellow poop.” For the rest of the day, every time she felt that tingly feeling in her cheeks that meant she was about to upchuck, Miss Katherine would cry and yell, “No more yellow poop, Mommy. No more yellow poop.”
To this day, my daughter has only vague recollections of this incident. Thank goodness, because it is emblazoned on my memory as one of the grossest, yet most adorable days of my parenting career. Motherhood, who knew?