The Puke Story

Warning: There is no point to this story. 

One time, when Brandon was small enough to fit into a BabyBjorn (Remember those expensive pieces of shit?) and I was stupid motivated enough to wear my 15-pound kid in one of those things, along with my 10 pounds of breast-milk-filled breasts, I took all three boys out for a stroll in our 'hood. During this exciting stroll, Connor kind of complained that he wasn't feeling too great but hey, kids complain ALL THE TIME about "thiiis" and "thaaat" and frankly, I was pretty much over the miscellaneous complaining, three kids later.

So I didn't pay much attention to his complaints. Much to my detriment.

We strolled. We got home. For whatever reason (probably to rest my back from the twenty-five pounds of kid and tits hanging off my chest), I decided to sit down in one of the chairs in our house. I don't know what kind of chair it is, a club chair, a wing chair, a striped chair, a what-the-hell-ever-chair, but anyway, it was some expensive (I'm sure) chair that my in-laws graciously handed down to us, even though they knew that our kids were going to absolutely TRASH the chair within minutes of placing it in our home.

But what kind of chair it is isn't relevant. What's relevant is that within one minute of sitting down in this mysteriously-named, expensive chair, with Brandon sound asleep in the BabyBjorn that was still strapped to my chest, Connor walked over to me. He might have said something, he probably did, but all I remember is that I turned my head to the right, looked at him, saw his mouth open, and instinctively closed my eyes and quickly turned my face to the left.

It wasn't in enough time. Connor, as he opened his mouth, projectile spewed vomit all over Brandon's head, my face, the chair, the floor, and himself.

It landed on my fucking lip. A chunk of vomit, on my lip. It was all over the lower half of my face. Someone else's vomit, on my face. I had a vomit goatee.

I seriously hope you're laughing your ass off right now.

I jumped up, and crazily enough, I was concerned about our cream-colored carpet that is already stained beyond any hope of repair. Yet, my concern focused me enough to direct the still-puking Connor to the bathroom five feet away, somehow while ignoring the chunk of vomit on my lip and the vomit all over the lower half of my face.

In the bathroom, while telling Connor to aim his mouth toward the toilet (f.y.i., a two-year-old doesn't understand that directive), still ignoring the vomit on my lip and face, I started wiping the vomit off of Brandon's still-asleep head. I was simultaneously baffled at his ability to sleep through someone puking on his head, and marveling at my ability to ignore the puke on my face to tend to the puke on my kid's head AND tend to the kid that was still puking all over himself two feet away from me and two feet away from the toilet.

What a cleanup job. But hey, I love to look on the bright side (Does that surprise you? I get that.) and this meant that the BabyBjorn actually got washed for once. I mean, really, it was all worth it just so the BabyBjorn could get washed. And no, Amy and Melinda, I am NOT going to tell you which Bjorn of yours - that you so graciously let me borrow - it was he puked on. Mainly because I have no idea.

It was a grand time, a fond memory of my kids and motherhood that is seared in my mind forever.

Apparently, I wasn't partying right in college.

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