There was a Spencer who swallowed round rocks,
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.