Up My Own Ass

Here is a fantastic little bipartisan tale that everyone can enjoy.

I hate vomit.  I doubt there is anyone reading this that says, “Not ME, I LOVE IT!!!”

But I REALLY hate it.

Unfortunately, one of the risks of having children is that they will erupt like Mt. Vasuvius at the drop of a hat.  Generally speaking, that is reserved for the little ones who don’t quite have a knack for discerning when they have passed the event horizon of yackery.

My son is the exception to that generality.  I always thought he was a very responsible yakker.  Being plagued with migraines, he tends to be able to just deal with it, go the restroom, and bow down in porcelain prayer, especially since he is a TEENAGER.  Today he proved me wrong.

We found ourselves in the inconvenient position of needing to get a tire replaced RIGHT NOW, so we stopped by our friendly neighborhood tire purveyor, and waited for the necessary repair.  We sat for a good hour, without him ever once saying, “You know, Mom, I don’t feel so well.”  I just happened to look over at him and he has this shitty look on his face that could easily be construed as “surly teenager,” and I said, “What’s wrong?” In response, he points to his stomach with one hand, and makes a gesture like he was going to throw up.  I pointed to the bathrooms, and he took off running.

Now, most people would have stopped at the nearest receptacle and barfed, as awkward as that may be.  Not MY boy… mine ran into the SERVICE BAY and stood IN FRONT OF A TRASH CAN and proceeded to hurl about 38 gallons of sick EVERYWHERE… again, NEXT TO A TRASH CAN.

My back is to this scene, but I hear one of the mechanics yelling, “AW, HE’S GETTING SICK!” and I just sat there, not even batting an eyelash.  I turned to my fella and said, “I am SO not dealing with this.  You need to go and clean it up.”

He leaves for a few minutes and returns saying, “Oh, honey, you need to plug your nose and come see what your son just did… you know that scene in Team America?”

Oh, HELL no.  Just then, the mechanic calls out that our vehicle was ready to go, and I sheepishly gestured that it was my car.  He smiled and said, “Is that your son?”

“Yes.”

“Ooookaaaay… well… you just take your time, then.”

He didn’t just get it on the floor.  It was in his hair, on his clothes, dripping from his eyeglasses, and covering every surface like a Jackson Pollock painting.  I can never get another flat tire again.

Does Hallmark even MAKE an apology card for this?