A Rite of Passage

I submit that you don't feel like a real parent until you've been puked on by your child. There's really nothing like someone else's nice, warm vomit running down your neck to make you feel that yes, you're really taking care of this small person NO MATTER WHAT.

Perhaps you can guess that Cubby was sick yesterday? Indeed. He woke up from his afternoon nap in a pool of his own vomit*. Just like a college frat boy, except without the fun night of debauched alcoholic consumption that usually leads to such a result.

Poor kid. He was a mess. A disgusting, cheesy-smelling mess. I put him right in a bath and then spent the next hour or so holding him while he clung limply to my neck. The very same neck he then threw up on at least once before I got smart about it and started draping myself in a towel.

Kids are really gross sometimes. In case you didn't know.

This is the first time in his entire short life that he's vomited, and I think he just really didn't know what was happening. He was surprisingly stoic about it, actually, perhaps due to his confusion about the whole thing. After about an hour, though, he perked up enough to ask after the dogs and soon he was running around as if he had not puked on me a mere hour before.

If only we were all so resilient.

Here's hoping today features much less disgusting bodily fluids. I don't ask much, really. A day without vomit would do nicely.

* Vomit that included the remains of some blueberries. It was . . . very colorful. I'll leave it at that.