When The Boy Child was a wee one, he slept in a cozy little built-in bed that he would climb into and go off to La-La Land. It was on numerous occasions that he barfed in his cozy, little bed. There was a gap of about an inch between his bed and the wall and that kid always managed to barf in that direction, so you would have to get a wet rag wrapped around a yardstick to try to get in there and clean it up.
Make that The Big Daddy since I get the dry heaves when I’m anywhere near barf.
When The Boy Child was about eight, he said he didn’t feel good and I had him run into the bathroom to get sick. Our teeny, little bathroom that was made for The Seven Dwarfs and that kid stood in the middle of the room and barfed everywhere.
It. Did. Me. In.
I went Mommy Dearest on him and instead of asking him if his poor tummy was upset said, “FOR CHRISSAKES, IF YOU’D HAVE LEANED IN ANY DIRECTION, YOU WOULD HAVE HIT A SINK, A TUB OR A TOILET!!!”
He got the message and we never had to clean up barf from that kid again.
This………………
………….needs to go away. The idea that people compete in cramming hot dogs down their throat (that are first dipped in a glass of water for easy sliding) is disgusting and I’ve never met a single person who wondered out loud who won the Annual Hot Dog Eating Contest.
This calls for an intervention, and since I’ve proven that I’m good at the bat-shit-mom-gone-crazy stuff, I elect myself. And I’m a result getter.
Except for that time when The Big Daddy and I went to a party. When we got home I crawled into bed but when I let go of the headboard cuz the room was spinning so bad, I puked everywhere. That time the result wasn’t so good.