Yack

I am a sympathetic puker. I am a low blood sugar puker. I am a motion sickness puker. Ironically, I hate to puke. Even more so, I hate seeing, hearing or smelling someone else puke. It makes me want to...well, you know.

This constitutional weakness reared it's ugly head as I herded the wayward lambies to the car to go to the airport to pick up my meticulous mother when....

Baruup, urrp, urpp. "Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Harrison's throwing up! Mamaaaaaaaaaaaa! Come NOW!"

"Harrison, GO TO THE BATHROOM! N O W!" I yell, knowing full well he is yacking all over the last remaining unmarred surface in the house.

You see, my dear son, like his mother, also hates to puke. He resists. He holds back. Once, when he and his sister got the flu within five minutes of each other, while dealing with her projectile vomiting--she honks totally, completely evacuating her upper digestive tract and then is done with the nasty business--he was barfing behind every piece of furniture in our newly carpetted family room. Nice neat little piles of puke stinking from every corner. Lovely.

His mother, too, has wretched in some pretty nice places. A five star restaurant in Chicago. Bennigan's parking lot (not a big deal, it probably happens a lot, I'd guess). Herod's of London department store at closing time in the Chocolate Department. That was the best. Herod's has a architectural design problem--one bathroom for all ten floors. At closing time, the elevator operator didn't want to let me go up to the bathroom. He wanted me to go down and get out. During the haggling, I turned green, my parents started to yell and then it was too late. And there you go. Based on the chocolate ladies (very nice chocolate) reaction, British people don't puke. Or don't puke in Herods at any rate.

Free associating here, that reminds me of the time my Shih Tzu Winston got the flu at the same time I did while pregnant for my boys. While I ralphed into the pan next to the couch, Winston ralphed all over the room. Watching helplessly, my weak legs and quivering stomach couldn't handle cleaning up his mess. "Welcome home honey!"

This time deep in the heart of Texas, with bright red vomitous spewed all over my kitchen floor (what Genius said Jello is good for sick people?), all over the kitchen chairs and all over my dear son, there was no waiting for "Honey". It was up to me. In precisely one hour, my anal mother, the one who cleans while sleeping so she can relax, would be rolling up to my house after a long wearisome flight wedged between smelly people on a full plane from Philadelphia.

My house must be clean. I must do it.

Mind you, this means juggling an irritated nine month old during his "witching hour" when he would much rather be roaming around the floor and playing with, why, what red stuff do we have here? This looks yummy.

My daughter bounces as she walks perilously close to the fetid mess. "Mama, it says six oh oh on the clock. Weren't we supposed to leave when it says six oh oh?"

"Yes."

"Are we going to be late for Grammy?"

"No."

"Are we going soon?"

"Yes."

"Are we taking Harrison?"

"We can't leave him."

"Ew. That is like, SO GROSS!"

I'm wondering when Valley Girl talk got popular again. With six year olds.

"Thank you honey. Go keep your brother company while I clean up."

Moving in to wipe up the offending yuck, my thoughts wander to having children. Why again was it that children sounded like such a good idea? I HATE puke. I hate poop. I hate pee. I hate diapers. I hate snot. I hate drool. I hate rashes. I hate unspecified goop. I hate anything smelly.

Proctology? Out. Dentistry? Out. Urology? Out. Basically any bodily function that involves excretions? Out. That's why I'm a Chiropractor. Everything stays internal and if it doesn't--a brain bulges externally for example--that usually means the patient is dead and no longer in need of my services.

Gingerly, holding my nose, looking away, my foot pushes the rags around sopping it up. The job isn't getting anywhere near done. Time is ticking. Must move in closer. My brain starts barking computerized demands. Must use hand. Must not throw up. Must get rid of stickiness. Must spray airfreshener. It smells like the local Intensive Care Unit after the weekend. I'm GONNA HURL!

Why, oh why, I ask you, did God create us with such disgusting design? Surely there is a better way to expunge toxic biohazards from the mammallion body than spewing. Coughing cats with furr balls, gurgling dogs undulating like a volcano about to erupt and humans, vile humans hunched and bent and contorting with spasmed compressive and then expulsive force. It is all so ewwwww, like grosss.

One day, my kids will snort and say indignantly,"You just don't care! If you loved me, you wouldn't be ruining my life! I HATE YOU!"

They won't remember all the times I subjugated my selfishness, overcame my delicate nose and got on my hands and knees scrubbing after lovingly washing and changing their clothes, cleaning them up, and tucking them in on the couch near me. They won't remember that this was done going out the door on the way to something important. They won't remember that I willingly lost sleep literally and figuratively nursing them to health and vitality. No kid remembers this.

That's why I'm writing about yacking right here right now. Proof. Proof of love. You all are my witnesses.