Health

Published on January 7th, 2015 | by Richard Black

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On the Subject of Vomit, a Continued Yet Tasteful Commentary on the Expulsions of Children

baby_devil

A cute and cuddly puking machine looking horrified presumably before he is sent into foster care.

To continue on the heels of my last post regarding the contents that have left the southern half of my daughter in an alarming fashion for this post I thought I’d focus on the events north of the border for this post.

I’ve been fortunate in many ways, not the least of which is the fact that my daughter has never used me as a toilet. She does puke around me quite a lot though. I’ve hosed off car seats, entrances to local shops, grocery stores aisles, boots, shirts, pants, stairs, small children (not my own), a multitude of stuffed animals (also not my own) and really any material possession I’ve ever cherished or even been somewhat fond of.

In college I lived in a house with fifty other guys and before you start to imagine a bunch of young men giving each other oil rub downs and humping each other in the communal shower I’d like to assure you that our relationships were platonic, at least I’m pretty sure they were. I passed out a lot and I lived with a lot of shady dudes.

I never really thought I’d gained much from my four years as an undergrad but it turns out that living in a house with a bunch of other young men is fantastic training for having a child and that is because men under the age of 22 are disgusting.

One young man living by himself is at best a little unkempt, perhaps even a little sad like a cute, scrawny, mangy and poorly dressed puppy. At his worst he is simply revolting. A stench riddled, hygienically challenged, waste spewing shambling mound of filth and potential disease. Put a group of them together and you have a morass of such revolting proportions the CDC wouldn’t handle with an army of robots wearing Hazmat suits. Unless you’ve lived it the experience is really on such a monumental scale of filth that its hard too imagine.

Somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean there is an area of swirling garbage the size of Texas. Scientists say that it’s the result of litter and runoff and our propensity to dump massive amounts of garbage anywhere out of sight and but I have my doubts. I’m pretty sure that the North Pacific Gyre (as it’s known) began it’s life as a Frat House. Add some feces, puke, beer cans a few people into watersports and a slight sense of regret and you’ve got a good idea of what my experience in college was like.

Unfortunately, and to get back on topic, Laura never had the benefit of living with fifty young men. At least she’s never volunteered any information leading me to believe so. We have a “don’t ask don’t tell” policy about the lives we’ve lead before we met and so far it’s worked out quite well at least until now.  To be honest I now foresee spending a lot of time Googling different variations of “coed and fifty men” in order to determine whether my wife had an ongoing gangbang with fifty guys during college. Don’t judge me. It’s for the sake of my marriage.

Where was I? Ohh yes.  I’ve been barfed on quite a lot. Being a Stay at Home Dad I get dibs on frequency when it comes to vomit but Darcy reserves the really quality pukes for her mother. One incident, in particular, stands out.

I’ve documented this unvacation somewhere on this site but don’t have the mental fortitude to look for the post. Instead I’ll just encourage you to bounce around until you find it or some other post that strikes your fancy because, quite frankly, I could use the attention.

To make a very long story slightly shorter the 13 hour jaunt to New Orleans turned into an epic two day voyage I like to think would have made Odysseys say, “Fuck it, this island looks good just don’t hang out with Circe and we’ll all be fine.”

We were supposed to celebrate the New Year with some friends in NOLA and never made it further than Denim Springs Louisiana, the drop off point for the daughter of a friend of mine whom we ferried from St. Louis, and a lovely parish if one is an elderly pederast looking to retire.

An hour south of Memphis Darcy projectiled the contents of her stomach all over the backseat of our SUV, our luggage and one unfortunate little girl, the aforementioned daughter whom I will call Hope. I can’t say that Hope died that day but she did spend the bulk of her time with our family plastered against the car door in a futile attempt to stay as far away from my daughter as possible.

We holed up in one of the few towns between Memphis and Jackson with a hotel and a washing machine, hosed down the car seat, the car, my daughter and Hope just in time for Darcy to spike a fever around midnight. I looked around for a drugstore for an hour and was finally directed to a Wal Mart that was in the process of a low grade riot and was, fortunately, still open for business.

The next day we drove through a fucking monsoon.  For six hours. With a nauseated three year old. It was magical. Once we arrived at my buddy’s house Hope ran to her bedroom where she spent the next five days trembling in the fetal position.  had almost finished moving four metric tons of luggage into my friend’s home when my daughter puked directly into my wife’s mouth.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about leaving and heading straight back home sans wife and daughter. It was a fleeting thought and one of many through the course of my life I have learned to ignore because I am an idiot. For starters I couldn’t think of a single reasonable excuse I could come up with that Laura would buy.

“Hey honey I just remembered that my mother wanted me to move her dining room furniture into the garage this weekend. It’s her annual furniture swap and I can’t believe I forgot. I’ll see you and Darcy later in a few days. Don’t sleep with Carl by the way. He’s a good guy but I’m pretty sure he’s got a screaming case of herpes.”

I also thought about faking a somewhat serious illness. Appendicitis seemed like a good choice at first but once I thought it through I knew that Laura wouldn’t buy it. She knows quite a bit about me after all and not the least of which is the fact that I’m a bitch when it comes to pain.  The idea that I would stoically drive 700 miles to check myself into a hospital was laughable. There was also the slight chance Laura would take me seriously and I’d end up in a hospital in rural Louisiana; a situation I’ve gone through extravagant lengths to avoid and encourage others to do so as well.

In the end I stuck it out and rang in the New Year in the usual fashion, hunched over a toilet in a friend’s house, but without the benefit of alcohol. Whatever managed to infect my daughter spent the next 48 hours in my stomach, cheerfully humping away in an effort to destroy my entire gastrointestinal system before I ejected them in a truly spectacular display throughout New Year’s Eve. I didn’t get to see any fireworks per se but I know what jambalaya looks like after six hours in my stomach and the similarities are remarkable.

Raising a child involves a lot of sacrifices, not the least of which are becoming comfortable to one’s proximity to vomit, various other bodily expulsions and the constant threat of disease. I’m sure that there will be some future moment when I’ll laugh yearn for the days when all I had to worry about some bug that rendered my family incontinent for a few weeks. In a few short years Darcy will enter puberty, a date that will undoubtedly coincide with Laura’s menopause and a plague of locusts and I’ll reminisce about the time we all had explosive diarrhea at the same time in a one bathroom home.

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