“I need Nemo Fish”, he says.  There is a plastic jelly sort of thing in the shape of the Finding Nemo fish that we keep in the freezer for his boo-boo’s; just a little something he’s gotten in the routine of running to when he scrapes a knee or stubs a toe.  A millisecond’s hold upon the abrasion is usually enough to make it all better.  So I get Nemo Fish, not entirely sure why, since he had been cuddling with me on the couch and didn’t stumble into anything.  He holds Nemo Fish to his belly.  He had a stomach ache, my poor baby.  Nemo Fish stayed there for longer than usual, so I asked, “All better?”  He shook his head no at first, but after a minute he gave it back to me and Nemo Fish returned to his frigid home.  We went and sat on our Big Comfy Chair, and I rubbed his little head that still smelled of his bathtime and assumed he was dosing off.

That’s when it hit me.  Literally.

The first spew of vomit was probably enough to baste an oven stuffer roaster.  It stunned me at first because I wasn’t sure if I should get up and have it all run down onto the floor, or if I should just pick him up and run into the bathroom… well, I didn’t have time to decide.  The next bit was even more projectile, and by now it was running down to my ankles.  I stood up and was about to strip when the third, most plentiful splash of stomach contents came henceforth out of my toddler’s mouth (and nose!) and landed squarely at my barefeet, right in front of the ottoman.  No amount of stain-resistant carpet was going to be a match for this.  So as I’m feeling so terrible for my little guy, I skip into the kitchen to get some towels and scream upstairs for The Husband to gethislazyassoutofbedandcomerescueusfromthelandofpuke.  I strip down to nothing and feel the bucket of regurgitated soymilk and cookies squelching in between my toes as I grab a bunch of dishtowels and the very awesome toddler spray.

My little dribbly guy looks up at me as he’s getting mopped up and says with a cheerful grin, “I feel much better now, Mommy!”