Vomit Part III: Deli

We stop at the grocery store to pick up food for summer vacation. We rent a house in the middle of nowhere, so we stop when we see a store. We get all the random stuff. Milk, butter, bread and all sorts of meat for grilling. It's summer vacation after all. A couple hours earlier Boy had thrown up in the car on the highway. Remember Cookies and Cream? He's apparently just off today. By now enough time has passed that I imagine his stomach is pretty much empty. The whining starts. It's that whine. I'm hungry. They are able to hit that note that goes right through the skull. I become tense when Boy goes into whining mode. Please stop. Please don't say it again. I start blinking rapidly. I'm hungry. I break. Ok, let's get you something to eat. We have just walked through the produce section, I spot the deli. The deli. We order our stuff, some ham, turkey, cheese. Could you please leave a slice of turkey and a slice of cheese out of the package. Boy loves a turkey and cheese rollup. Who doesn't? Not three bites and he's making a face. Fantastic. I see it coming, so I have a split second to make some decisions. It's coming. I am holding one of those little 69 cent spiral-bound pads you buy at the drugstore that has our list written on it. I cup both hands with the pad in the middle and I catch. What has he had to drink? I can't remember anything. I am wrong. My cupped hands are full of what liquid was in his belly and chewed up cold cuts with a soaking wet notepad with blue smears right in the middle. Almost like a little raft. I'm awful without the list, but it's too late. At this point I have no options. I need to stand there with the vomit. It's dripping. Mommy goes right back to the deli. My son has just thrown up, do you have any paper towels? The teenage girl behind the deli counter gives Mommy a single paper towel. In my head she delicately tears a single sheet off along the perforations being careful not to tear the sheet. Mommy grabs it and runs over to help me. One paper towel is not very helpful. A band aid for a broken arm, if you will. I appreciate Mommy's quickness in getting the paper towel, but in haste she didn't stop to think about the situation completely. So now I'm holding a soaked pad of paper, a saturated paper towel, and a healthy amount of liquid. Hands cupped. Dripping. Grocery stores are active places. I can't really hide what I'm holding. The deli is like Grand Central. People walking buy. I nod with my jaw clenched. 45 minutes have gone by in slow motion. Ok, the time is in my head. The liquid is dripping down my arm. Mommy confronts the clueless deli girl. She comes back with the roll. Put me out of my misery. I wipe up the mess and go to the bathroom to wash my hands and Boy with soap and water. There is a line. On humid days I can still smell the combination of deli combined with cookies and cream on my hands.

Victory chips

Boy likes to do his own thing. He really doesn't listen to anything I say and demands instant gratification. When he wants to play baseball, we play baseball right then and there. When he wants to eat, he eats. Somehow it's completely ok that he helps himself to whatever he wants. Who am I to judge? Let's be honest, he has learned that from me. So on day, I come home from work and I go into the kitchen to help get dinner started. Boy is hungry. Great, he's gonna whine until dinner is ready. I hurry. Next I hear the door to the bathroom shut. Then it locks. I don't think much of it. A few minutes later as I walk by the bathroom I hear some rustling. I know that rustling. He has gotten himself a bag of Cape Cod potato chips, gone into the bathroom, shut the door, locked it and now he's laying on the floor going to town. This is the big Costco bag, by the way. I know this from the rustling sound. I'm no stranger to Cape Cod potato chips. They rock. I've been to the factory where they make them. Even ate more than the allotted sample size. Didn't feel the least bit bad about it. I've been a valued customer for years. They owe me. So it's clear to me what's going on. Also at this point he realizes what I know. He also knows he's smart enough to lock the door. And that he's wrong. Giggling. Rustling. Crunching. Giggling. Rustling. Crunching. Oh, game on, Boy. Open this door I say. Giggling. Rustling. Crunching. The thing about a 3-year old is they don't have any feelings of what's gonna happen next, only what is currently happening. I destroy a coat hanger to get it through that little hole in the bathroom door to unlock it. The door flies open. He panicks. He grabs the chips and runs behind the toilet. He, of course is only in his underwear, holding a bag of chips half his size. He manages to eat more chips as I grab the bag. The worst part about it? Even though he knows he's clearly in the wrong, he still gets mad at me and has a tantrum. Somehow, I'm the bad guy. I'm not going to apologize. Even though these are my chips and I can do what I want, I still conceal the handful of chips that I eat when I reclaim the bag. I have a fear that Boy may see me. I can't close up the bag without a few for the effort. But somehow it's tainted. I enjoy my victory chips like someone who said they quit smoking but didn't. In shame.