Vomit is the litmus test for the depths of one’s love. I think John Donne said that somewhere between ‘Death Be Not Proud,’ and ‘The Flea.’ My son tested me with the christening of my car a few days ago, and each bodily fluid that our progeny sends our way makes us stronger.
It’s taken me a few days to commit the moment to posterity because, well, it’s fucking gross, and I am a wimp of the first order. Give me fictional Stuart Gordon and Takashi Miike all day long, but make a stifled “urp!” in your throat, and I am checking myself for signs of nausea.
I knew I passed a serious test of fatherhood when I made it through the ten-minute car ride home with the windows doing a weak ass job of wafting the smell down the freeway and my son doing a valiant but equally weak ass attempt to dab stomach contents off his face.
But, I steeled myself, put on my big boy pants, and cleaned my kid and the car. Let me tell you, little people are much easier to clean than automobile interiors. I didn’t have to triple swipe a washcloth inside any human crevices to make sure there were no wayward chunks of breakfast baking in the sun.
My son felt bad about having choofed in the car, which in turn made me feel bad. It was just a minor bout of car-sickness, but it was potent enough. I kept my calm through the whole experience, but I still had to massage some feelings. I had a New Years Eve date once who punctuated the evening with a much larger display of gastric volume, and, come to think of it, I handled that one pretty well, too. We’ll chalk that teachable moment up to the benefits of club drinks and drugs in your 20s.
Moms are made of tougher stuff, so please don’t feel excluded when I say to my fellow dads, cheers to you who have caught chunks in your hands, on your lap, in your car, in your bed, on the sofa, in your hair, on the dog, in your home, or in public. You have a battle scar that cannot be removed with lasers or grafts.
Keep your head high and your lunch down.
Have a good day!
Otto Scungy
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz
Stand by me, and hold my hair.
A bucket for monsieur (you have been warned)
https://youtu.be/veE1pGEaJig
It’s ok, honey.
Have a good day!
Otto Scungy
