The Little Puke

Over at her own blog, d recently offered a hilarious account of how our son, Kai, covered her with vomit at a local restaurant. She got drenched! Or, as she more evocatively puts it, "I looked like a contestant in the Annual Vomit Fetishists Wet T-Shirt Contest . . . ." She had to run home to shower before she could rejoin us for dinner—but not before making the "Walk of Shame" through the crowded restaurant.

Wouldn't you know it? Some families we know happened to spot d (or "Wino Mom," as they probably now call her) on her way out. But that's not all! I hadn't realized until I read d's blog that our daughter, like an emotional shark smelling humiliation in the water, leaned out the window of the restaurant to yell at her retreating mother, "Bye, Mom! Don't forget to come back smelling better!"

Let the record show that Kai has chosen me, too, as his designated vomitee. In fact, I got my most recent dowsing almost exactly a week to the hour after d's. Granted, I didn't get quite as soaked as she did. Kai apparently went for quality rather than quantity when he targeted me, somehow managing the throw up into the leg of my shorts. (Don't worry; he's fine. He was just gagging on a too-large chunk of string cheese.)