Road To Anywhere - Throwing Up Is Hard To Do

In this week's edition of Road To Anywhere - our weekly blog post about anything but movies - Gabe talks about his least favorite activity, and why it's an integral part of his life.

THROWING UP IS HARD TO DO

Monday night, as I finally hit “Upload” on the latest episode of Driveway Video Discussions (CLICK HERE to watch), from the direction of my youngest son’s bedroom I heard a sound every parent of school-aged children knows a little too well: the gasping half-sob/half-confused interrogative of a child just awakened by something awful.

I stood from my keyboard and walked down the hall to find him leaning over the edge of his bed – still intermittently voicing sleepy bewilderment – as a pile of semi-firm vomit cooled on the floor below.  I have to give the kid credit for having the presence of mind to lean over the edge of his bed before spewing.  That sort of rational decision-making is hard when you’re still asleep.

School has been in for less than a week and my kid is already hurling in his sleep.  Not that it comes as a surprise.  After 9 years of school-aged children, I could’ve set my watch by it.  Welcome to a parent’s life.  At least I’m a night owl, so cleaning up barf at 3 in the morning is no bigger a deal than cleaning it up at 3 in the afternoon.  Which isn’t to say it’s not a big deal.

I hate vomit.  It’s one of the few things that – no matter how often I clean it up – I’ve never gotten used to.  Poop smeared on the toilet seat?  Gross, but no big deal.  Wet the bed?  Mere inconvenience.  Pool of barf on linoleum?  Week ruined.

It’s not that I’m one of these so-called “sympathetic” vomiters.  The sight of puke has never once made me feel the need to let fly out of solidarity.  It’s just that once that stomach-acid-meets-fermented-vegetable smell gets into my nose, it camps there like a hobo behind an Arby’s, flavoring my food and acting as an unspoken deterrent to comfortable conversation for days after.  I know it’s all in my head, but like that metaphorical hobo, I just can’t seem to get rid of it.

The last time I threw up was in ‘05 or ‘06 – far enough back that I can’t remember for sure, anyway.  It was one of those Hostess fruit pie things that did it, only an off-brand whose name I can’t recall (I’d hate for the good people at Hostess to take the blame for my puke, as I’ve always enjoyed their fine – albeit less than healthy – products).  I’d bought a few of the things and kept them in a desk drawer as midnight snacks.  Maybe the desk drawer was a bad place to store them, but they do keep them on a room-temperature shelf at the store.  How was I to know?  I spent the rest of the night on the toilet with a bucket in my hands, sobbing every time I felt a contraction coming, knowing I was about to fire from both ends.  It was a bad night, but at least I got that wonderful visual to share with you.  You’re welcome.

My son was fine the next morning.  He didn’t even remember having woken up.  When I asked him about it that afternoon, he looked at me as if to say, What kind of BS are you trying to pull?

I’m happy for him. I wish I could forget his puke as easily as he did.  It wasn’t until yesterday that I could finally eat my lunch without psychologically seasoning it with stomach acid.

This morning at 3am I heard a sound coming from the direction of my daughter's bedroom that every parent of school-aged children knows a little too well.

“Dad,” my daughter called, knowing I was awake, “I just threw up.”

Yep.  Could’ve set my watch by it.

-GABE

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