My son throws up. O.K., if you’re a parent you’re thinking, “big deal, all kids hurl now and then.” But I would wager that you haven’t seen projectile vomotosis until you’ve witnessed my little guy blow like Mt. Pompeii. We should have named the kid Ralph or Chuck instead of Cameron. In his four and a half years, he has spewed white curdled goop in our car no fewer than fifty times. On one particularly memorable trip to grandma’s house, he erupted in his Buzz Light Year action figure’s helmet, filling it to the rim with scrambled eggs and ham. Thanks to Buzz’s head gear, there was no major damage to the car interior that day.
Cameron’s spewfests have debuted in the car on the freeway, in the car on a ferry, in the car on a bridge and in the car in the parking lot at IKEA. Lest you spot a theme here and are thinking “so stop taking him on long car journeys”, let me put your mind at rest. My baby’s puking performances aren’t just reserved for vehicular entertainment: He has even vomited at the dinner table with our minister sitting directly across from him. Our good-humored holy man, bringing a whole new meaning to “there but for the grace of God”, assured me that Jesus probably barfed as a youngster too
Cameron’s propensity to puke has made me rethink my pre-teen obsession with a favorite gag, the fake, puddle of barf. You know the one. The sink-stopper sized patch of bile colored rubber embedded with chunks of faux vegetables and chewed up Cheerios. My brother and I spent the summer of our 5th and 6th grade year hurling that thing out onto the sidewalk while unsuspecting neighbors gingerly stepped around or over it, grossed out by the site of our clever prank. Who knew that one day our childhood high- jinks would be repaid with the real stuff embedded into the upholstery of my car and my clothes? It doesn’t take the Dali Lama to confirm that that’s Karma.
My son does not have a serious disease or some three-syllable chronic intestinal yeast allergy that causes him to explode at the mere mention of gluten. No, my son is perfectly healthy, a veritable four-and-a-half-year-old in a seven-year-old body. He’s just a big, strapping, happy kid who just happens to puke—a lot – especially when we take to the road and notably when the trip includes goldfish crackers and dairy products.
Last Christmas vacation my husband Mark and I got the bright idea to take two of our three kids skiing for the day. Our local mountain is a relatively short, straight drive, two hours and some change from Seattle, all depending on weather conditions, potty stops and the never-ending road construction due to the overbuilding of Starbucks drive thrus. We Seattleites would not survive without our coffee. Our boys, Cameron and eleven-year-old Kalen, were anxious for the trip, egging each other on with threats to catch “radical, earth defying air.” I liked Cameron’s optimism, but the fact that he’d never really been on skis before made catching anything but the rope tow hard to imagine.
We woke at the crack of dawn, gathered our skis, boots, poles, jackets, scarves, overalls, hats, long underwear, goggles and of course, Rabitiee, Cameron’s weathered stuffed bunny who was beginning to look more like a dirty dead possum than a cuddly play thing, and headed out the door—in the drizzling rain. Both Mark and I were optimistic that rain in the lowlands could only mean great powder on the slopes.
I didn’t have vomiting on the brain that morning when we drove out of our wet neighborhood in 33-degree weather. At four and a half, Cameron seemed to have turned the corner on projectile-ability. It had been a few months since we had any incidents; as a preventative measure we had officially sworn off road milk, which seemed to have done the trick. This trip I was more concerned about Cameron’s pus-oozing ear infection that just wouldn’t go away. Though his ear looked gross it didn’t seem to be cramping his style. He was as active and happy as ever and barely noticed the amber colored substance dripping from his ear. Our pediatrician had guaranteed me the day before that a third round of antibiotics was sure to wipe out the infection and put him on the road to recovery.
The voyage started out well. We, like all the other people headed to the mountain, made our requisite Starbucks stop and ordered a tall skinny latte no foam, double Americana, room for cream. We passed through the valley in record time. Let me clarify, the valley isn’t much of a valley anymore, it’s more like sea of strip malls, complete with tanning booths, Subway Sandwich shops, Grocery stores, nail salons, and stop lights at every intersection. The trip was going smoothly, like the Partridge family on tour, until I remembered that Cameron needed to take his medicine.
“How are you feeling, my baby?” I asked him over my shoulder, straining my neck to peek inside his ear.
“I’m good. Can I ski all day Mommy? Until it’s really dark?”
“Well, we’ll see. We need to find out what the plan is with your lesson.”
“Will I get big air Mommy? Just like Kalen?”
“I’m sure you will honey. How does your ear feel?”
“It’s fine. It’s just a little drippy.”
Cameron had his infection for so long that I had gotten used to the waxy drool that occasionally pooled up in his ear or dripped from his lobe. But the teachers in the “little tot” ski program might just be plain grossed out if not alarmed. And so, I did what a good mother would do. I dug out the bottle of horse sized pills and asked, “please honey, take your medicine.”
“No. Mommy. I hate that medicine.”
“You’ll feel better I promise. Skiing will be so much fun when you feel better.”
“No I don’t want any,” He said rearing his head, closing his eyes and covering his mouth.
“Come on honey, pleeeeezzzzzze.”
“No!”
OK, nice Mommy hadn’t worked. Time for mean Mommy.
“If you don’t take your medicine you can’t go skiing.” I threatened. At that he opened his eyes and took his had away from his mouth.
“Do you have milk?” he asked sheepishly, knowing full well that milk was off limits in the car.
“No, baby, you need to eat your medicine without milk today. Remember our new rule, no milk in the car.”
“Then I am not taking it and you can’t make me.” His hand went back to his mouth and once again he closed his eyes.
My husband, who likes to pretend he’s Bono while driving, was belting out The Streets Have No Name and drumming on the dash while I was negotiating a deal in our son’s antibiotic strike. Kalen was behind Cameron in the back seat, headphones on and rockin’ out to yes, (an “old school” band he had recently discovered in his dad’s stack of cds). Like father, like son: classic rock obscuring any awareness of family drama completely oblivious to the fact that Cameron and I were at a stand off.
Cameron sat stiffly in his car seat shaking his head with his lips and eyes pursed shut. I could see that no antibiotic would touch this kid’s lip until I could produce a chaser of organic 2%. And so, reluctantly and hidden from view from the distracted rock stars in the front and back seats, I dug inside my backpack and like a magician produced a pink sippy cup full of milk, stashed there earlier for unspecified “emergencies”. Then, as if I were reaching into the back seat for a tissue, I discreetly slipped the cup to the little guy, unnoticed. Cameron gave me a knowing look that said, “Thanks mom, I won’t tell a soul.” Mark had no idea that I had broken our parenting pact of “no milk in the car ever.” Like a frat boy to a beer bong, Cameron swallowed the two purple tablets chasing them down with the entire sippy cup of milk. When he was done he passed the cup back to me quietly.
I breathed a sigh of relief a few minutes later when I turned around to see that Cameron was as happy as a lark unfazed by the eight ounces of dairy. “He must be over it I said to myself.” Within an hour we would be on the slopes. I could rest, take a little cat nap and prepare for a day of carving turns.
I briefly dozed off. Suddenly I was Picabo Street racing down the mountain, wind in my hair, gliding through the gates, taking in the cheer of the crowds and basking in the glow of Olympic stardom when I was startled awake, “Oh shit!” I heard my husband say, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Oh shit. I think he’s going to blow.”
I turned around to see my sweet little partner in crime release a little burpish hiccup. His tiny nose scrunched up and his lips puckered as if he had suddenly bitten into a lemon. Then with a bit of a pause he reared his head against the car seat and he began spewing rancid, curdled milk. His head spun like a lawn sprinkler moving in a syncopated circular motion from one side of the car to another, hitting nearly every surface and human being in site with what looked like wet, antibiotic infused, cookie dough.
“Oh my god, that is sick. Daaaaddddddd!!!!” Kalen yelled from behind the parka that was doubling as a shield. “He threw up all over my cd player. It’s so gross. Stop him. Oh my god, Daaaaaadddd. Stop the car.”
Cameron began to cry.
“Oh, fuck!” said Mark, turning to see the disaster in the back seat and wiping the vomit from his ear.
“Mark, watch your mouth. That’s not how we talk around here.” I scolded, glancing at the boys to make sure they hadn’t registered the F word.
“Well then shit.” He said pulling into the nearest gas station.”
Cameron began to yell “my bunny, my bunny. Rabitee!” I turned to see that Rabitee the stuffed rabbit that had been his best friend since birth, the one that looked like a diseased marsupial rather than a cuddly Easter bunny was covered from his velvet ears to his cotton tail in disgusting puke. Cameron held Rabitee up by one ear and began to flail him around the back seat trying to shake puke from his dirty, worn polyester coat. The toy rabbit spun in the air, creating an after shock of barf.
“Put that down.” yelled Kalen, who was now hunkered down in the back seat like a solider anticipating an air strike. “That’s disgusting.”
Mark wheeled into the nearest parking spot and immediately moved into action like an EMT at a gory accident site. He pulled Cameron out of his car seat and ripped his shirt off. The cold drizzle that had been with us since we left Seattle had suddenly turned into a torrential downpour. “I’m cold,” cried Cameron. I ran around the car to pull off his pants and cover him up in my parka. Kalen was on the other side of the car, coat over his head, mock gagging and threatening to do a knee jerk vomit himself. Mark continued to work his way through the car pulling all the objects, clothes and toys that were coated in Cameron’s blended breakfast from the back seat. Nothing had been spared. Mittens, hats, parkas, water bottles, car seat, cup holder, cds were all coated in the thick runny substance. It smelled like an old shoe stuffed with aged parmesan and a baby diaper.
“Are we still going skiing?” Kalen asked to no one in particular. Both boys stood in the middle of the wet parking lot surrounded by our soiled clothes, car seat and stuffed bunny watching Mark and I curse, scurry and clean.
“Yes, we’re still going skiing,” Mark barked.
With that he picked up Rabitee and several pieces of vomit-soaked apparel items and shoved them into the trash bin.
“Rabiteee!!!!!!!” Cameron screamed. “You killed my little Rabiteee!!! Mommy! Help! Daddy threw Rabitee in the trash!
I ran to the trash can and looked inside. At the bottom of the greasy trash bin among oil cans, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, lottery tickets, water bottles, window rags and some of our prized Patagonia pieces lay Rabitee…dead. It went through my head that this could be a watershed moment in my son’s life. The one that turns him from normal boy to stuffed rabbit obsessed weirdo. Flash forward to the future. A Furrie convention at the Hilton Atlantic City. Cameron, in his late twenties, dressed up in hairy, white rabbit suit alongside other people dressed in stuffed animal get-ups trying to find their inner Thumpers and Bambies. With that thought I looked over my shoulder at my whimpering son dressed in a rag tag outfit and mourning the death of Rabitee.
“Oh baby, its o.k.” I said making my way over to Cameron and wrapping my arms around his shivering body. “Rabitee is dead. He’s going to go to pet heaven to live with Cloudy” I explained. Cloudy, our family cat, had passed away last summer so pet heaven was fresh in his mind and a logical next step for Rabitee.
“But Mommy that’s my Rabitee,” he continued as I plied him back into his soiled car seat.
“We’ll get you another Rabitee baby. Don’t worry.”
“Today? Can we get a new Rabitee today? Huh Mommy?”
“Yes, we’ll get you a new Rabitee either today or tomorrow. Now sit still.” I said.
Finally, we were sealed back in the car and on the road up to the Mountain.
“Are we going skiing still, Mommy?” Cameron asked, a little confused, having missed the earlier exchange in his focus on Rabitee. I was pleased to see that he had moved on to something less furry.
“Yes, baby we’re still going skiing.”
“The car really smells yucky mommy.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Marked piped in. “Pretty soon you won’t even smell a thing.”
“Yeah right,” said Kalen still speaking from under his jacket.
We rode in silence for a few minutes. All of us were weary from what seemed like a full day’s adventure and it was only 7:30am. Even the rock stars had been temporarily abandoned for the time being as we each pondered the day ahead. Then from the back-seat Cameron asked sheepishly. “Mommy, I’m thirsty. Can I have some milk?”
