A true story - not for the squeamish

What a day. I had planned to do a heartwarming end of year post about cyberfriends tonight but I just got of the shower, something I don't customarily do in the evening, because I was covered in vomit so I hope you'll forgive if I just share the gory details and call it a night.

I was hanging with my neighbor's two year old this evening and and I've got the tot on the changing table, doing a diaper shift and the little cutie is complaining about a stomachache. So here I am, with a half naked kid, discussing the exact location of the owie. I'm thinking it makes a difference if it's the stomach or intestinal. We didn't get far into the conversation when the little darlin starts to vomit. I freak.

In retrospect I probably should have just turned the kid over and let him puke on the rubber sheet on the changing table but he was crying and my first instinct was to pick a crying child up and hold him.

So I throw the kid over my shoulder and head for the bathroom. The first heave got caught in my hair. The second one went down my back. The third wave hit the door. We left a trail all the way to the final projectile into the bathtub. I pick him up and hold in my lap.

Now the kid feels better. I'm sitting on the edge of the tub with puke dripping off my clothes trying to figure out how I'm going to get us out of the bathroom without stepping in it. I'm agog.

"What a lot of puke," I said with awe.

The kid thinks this is hilarious. He giggles.

"What a lot of puke," he says. "Puke. Puke. Puke."

He's delighted by the phrase. He repeats it again and again, giggling louder every time. I'm glad he's all right and for that one moment it was funny. I laughed too.