I was just reading Mel's blog, and she was talking about how her daughter had a pukefest this past weekend. Just reading about someone else's trials and tribulations with the puke monster brought back all too vivid memories of my kids when they were little. Meg in particular. You know how they say if a child or a dog doesn't trust someone, you shouldn't either? Let me tell you, I know that for a fact. Meg was about 6 months old when I started dating my first husband. (No, that's not a typo. ) From day one, Meg hated him. I mean really hated him. So much so that whenever he came over or we went anywhere with him, Meg puked. I should have paid more attention. Anyway, I digress...
Anyway, fast forward to when Meg is in about 6th or 7th grade. Report card time came and she had a particularly good report card, so Steve asked her where she wanted to go for dinner. She named a popular Mexican restaurant (on the other side of town), so off we went. Meg has always been well known for her "tummy aches". To this day, any kind of stress (or milk product) will set off a reaction that you don't want to be in the room to witness.
We got the restaurant, placed our order and Meg disappeared to the bathroom. After about 10 minutes I was starting to get a little concerned so I went into the restroom to check on her. She was locked in a stall, I could see the feet dangling as she sat, so I asked her if she was okay. "I just have a little tummy ache". Okay. No problem. I told her dinner was going to be out in a few minutes and asked her if she wanted me to stay with her. No, she was fine, she'd be right there. So I went back to the table and she followed a couple minutes later. I asked her if she was okay. Oh yeah. Did her stomach still hurt? No. Fine. The food came and Steve and I jumped right in, I love Mexican food. I looked over and Meg is sitting there staring at her food. This is not my child. Again, I asked if she was okay. Yeah. Does your stomach hurt? A little. That should have set off red flags, but oh no, I never learn.
She finally managed to eat her dinner in between trips to the bathroom. I wanted to leave, but she wanted to eat because it was her celebration, she just had a "tummy ache". I asked her a couple times if she felt like she was going to throw up. No, just a tummy ache. Okay...
On the way home Steve decided to stop at his sister's house, but luckily (or not) she wasn't home, so we got on the interstate to get back to our house. I noticed Meg was really quiet, definitely not Meg-like, and when I looked in the back seat she was lying down. Uh oh. AGAIN I asked if she was okay. Um hm. No problem.
We got off the interstate and were about 6 blocks from our house when suddenly she shot straight up and said, "I'm going to throw up" and before I could yell, "Out the window!", she had vomited in her cupped hands. So she's sitting there with two handfuls of puke, choking and crying, and I'm trying not to gag because I can't even stand to hear someone throw up, Steve rolls the window down in the backseat and tells her to throw it out the window (hey, I'm just sayin'....) So she did. She just tossed her hands toward the open window while we were moving... Yeah, you can guess where all that landed. Right. Back. In. The. Car.
I don't even remember the rest of the ride home. I'm sure I was hanging my head out the window by the time we got there, though. Poor Steve had to clean the inside and the outside of the car, including the floor, seats, door, and the handle well on the back door. If it had been up to me, I'd have junked the thing as is. Yuck.
That was about 15 years ago and I haven't eaten at a Mexican restaurant with her since then without worrying all the way home about whether or not she going to yark. And if she says she has a tummy ache? I'm gone.