Vomit Part I

Let's just say the Vomit series will probably go on longer than the Rocky series. Let me set the scene. Thanksgiving 2006. 9 PM. In the parking lot behind a sketchy liquor store. I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll back up. Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday. Football, wine, unbelievable food. We go to my grandparents house. We usually get there around 1. There is a constant flow of food. The kind of food that a 3-year old can really eat as much or as little as he wants. Of whatever he wants. Who knows what he ate. If I had to guess, I'd say chips, nuts, cheese, crackers, pepperoni, pork paté, goldfish crackers, turkey, squash, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, squash, bread, carrots, cheesecake, butter tarts, pumpkin pie, apple pie, whoopie pies, fudge, beer, wine (no wait, that's me) all with gravy. We watch some football, laugh with family and then head home. 8:55 PM. As Boy gets tired he demands milk. I have no idea what he's eaten and I can't stand whining. Sure, here ya go. He fills his belly with milk in a sippy cup and we hit the road. About a mile or 2 down the road (\'oerwgujkpkkp\\\\---Sorry, Girl is interrupting me with typing, back to the story) Boy starts coughing. Then a wretch. A dead giveaway. His belly is full of God-knows-what. PULL OVER! We're never in time. This one is particularly bad. It hits the back of my seat. Velocity. I'm shotgun. Mommy is driving by cause of the wine. Then wave 2. Oh no. It's always in waves. We make it into the back parking lot behind said sketchy liquor store. Middle of November New England. Boy is half naked. Vomiting like a 60 year old wino. I'm holding him up. I'm good in crisis mode. We have a 20-minute drive in front of us. About a year ago I decided to keep a spare pack of wipes in the car. They, of course are missing. You ever try telling a cold, sick 3-year old that they must get back into the vomit covered seat for safety? The smell? Not good.

Give him about 9 years

I take the train to and from work. Mommy, Boy and Girl pick me up at the station. I walk to the car from the train. Boy asks what's in my hand. Why, that's a magazine, Boy. Here, look at it. Thanks, Daddy. I get a whole bunch of magazine subscriptions. I'm in advertising. I love looking at magazines. Especially with the amount of time spent on trains and planes. This one happens to be ESPN the Magazine. He's flipping through it. He gets excited when he sees baseball. "Big Papi!" Then I hear tearing. "Are you tearing the magazine, Boy?" "No," he says. He clearly is. He is tearing out an ad he wants me to see. Magazines are pretty disposable, so I really don't care that he is ripping it. I do not appreciate the lying, but now is not the time. He hands it up to me. I show it to Mommy at a stop light. It's an ad for Old Spice. Look, here it is. I start laughing. That's my Boy. Mommy is annoyed. Boy yells up from the back seat, "Look at the fish Daddy. Look at the fish."

Things I've found in my acoustic guitar sound hole

lego
guitar pick
matchbox car
block
crayon
plastic fireman badge
tiny strips of torn paper
Cheerio
pasta
barrette
Superball
action figure
animal cracker
harmonica (is this the definition of ironic?)

These items are very awkward to retrieve as the strings cover most of the space of the sound hole.

You sit at a restaurant

Boy sees the Dunkin' Donuts logo on the outdoor signs a good half mile before I do. That kid loves munchkins. Who doesn't? Usually the nice people at D&D provide the boy with free munchkins. Keep 'em comin' people. We have a pretty consistent routine. 3 munchkins for Boy. Various flavors. We encourage independent decision-making. Hot coffee with milk & one sugar for me. Occasionally I'll add a glazed donut. I could eat those things everyday if they weren't less than good for you. One day we went to the neighborhood D&D to grab a quick coffee. Auntie & Nephew were on their way over so I didn't have much time. Boy says he wants to go. I enjoy the D&D bonding so I say "what the heck". Put some pants and shoes on and let's hit the road. Oh, our house is apparently pants-optional. That's a whole other story. I get to the counter and place my coffee order. I look at Boy. He orders the donut with the chocolate frosting and sprinkles. Manager's special. I think that it's out of character, but OK, nice call. Make that two I say. He then turns around and walks to the cooler, grabs a bottle of chocolate milk and takes a seat in the back. We have a pretty good routine, get the coffee and munchkins and hit the road. What's going on here? For some reason, today is a restaurant day. He doesn't want to hit the road. Let's sit in the restaurant he says. The stray stools in the back of the shop aren't really a restaurant, but OK. Honestly, I have zero control. We sit until he finishes every bite of that donut. Half an hour. Mine was done in about thirty seconds. Then he falls asleep in the car on the way home. It's not like we have nothing to do. Plan ahead, kid. A rule has been established this day. Munchkins are to go. Donuts are for sit down. It helps for Sunday planning.

Why does he aim for the middle?

Remember, we've already thrown modesty out the window. Our house is set up where there is a bathroom upstairs in between our room and Boy's room. This is the bathroom I shower in. It's pretty private, so I don't always take the best care in covering myself up in between the bathroom and my bedroom where I get dressed after a shower. I used to wear the towel around my waist but I'm not consistently responsible. I wouldn't hang the towel up back in the bathroom after I was finished getting ready. Apparently, Mommy doesn't "appreciate" picking up after me. So I adapt. I walk in "God's vision of man" back to the bedroom. Out of nowhere Boy comes bursting in. "I'm going to bang your bum! I'm going to bang your bum!" he screams and tries to slap me on the ass. I'm not the quickest in the morning and sometimes he gets me. It's all in good fun, but he doesn't aim for the meaty cheek. He aims for the middle. That's just uncomfortable. I guess when you think about it, the line acts as a target.