Proceed With Caution
The need of a body to displace what is already being digested, or what has been mostly digested, happens at a speed incomprehensible to man. We can never fully measure the time from when one feels a, “sickness” coming on, to the point of discharge from the body. We can assume that this is relatively quick, for if this happened over a lengthy period time, we would always be in a convenient place when the body chose to get rid of its material.
A child’s system is small, small in stature, supposedly small in quantities, but quicker, more efficient than us adults. As we get older we tend to slow in our abilities. Not just reflexes or ability to obtain knowledge, but in how efficient the system runs overall. When a child’s speed is utilized to discharge matter from its fragile being, there is no preparation, for the wave will come and the aftermath is felt by all.
As the warm material submersed in a stringy, snot-like goo was expelled onto the side of my face, dripping down my shirt onto my lap only to be inhibited through the thick hairs on my beard, the speed amazed me most of all. I was not upset in the, but rather impressed. After all, the words, “Daddy, I don’t feel…..” were all that the mind could muster. All the sensations in the little body said something wasn’t right here as she took off down the hall, turned around and it happened. My initial thought was, “Well, I know that feels good.” Quickly followed by, “Oh, I should catch this.” Neither were helpful in the moment, outside of the humor of the intensity of the sense. On the second discharge only separated by a breath, I cupped my hands and caught this pile, then another, and by the fourth, I dropped it all for there was no plans of how to get up, how get that leaky, goo to a toilet.
It is always the humorous display of a bumbling father covered in some kind of goo while mother is away to indicate the ultimate insult to injury. As though the father was somehow “stuck” in this situation and is now paying the price. As the camera zooms in to the goofy, stained face of material the audience is supposed to find a sort of humor in the scene. The only reason humor is felt is because we can imagine that scene, we can recall maybe not the exact same thing, but at least something similar, for we have all at the least had frosting from decorating cookies on our face. When you have a child there is always something on a face or shirt or pants, because there is always something on her hands.
This was my scene, this was where the camera guy was supposed to zoom in and witness my goofy response to the bodily discharge dripping from my beard. The trombone was supposed to play a Waaa Waaaa and the picture fades out the next scene where it was all behind me. This was not a movie and that isn’t what happened. Instead the cleanup was worse than the action. As the sad child feels embarrassed, shameful for her making a mess, she screams, “It was an accident,” and my heart sinks. She feels bad. I have to act as though her throwing up on me, my face, this letter I was holding, is no big deal, for even a slight grimace or show of disgust may reinforce that feeling.
“No sweetie, it happens, it’s OK,” I mean what I say, but I am disgusted. And that smell….
The clothes drop to the floor, both hers and mine. I am willing to do what I didn’t think we would, take a shower together. Now there is no option, for we both need cleaned and I am dripping this, “What is that, tomato? Looks like clam chowder?”, everywhere. She is sad, but I can tell she feels better.
Once in the shower she laughs, plays, all is right, and I am OK, with the situation overall. However, I know that outside that shower curtain, in that bedroom of hers, there is a smell, a pile of vomit, and clothing material. A rug has to be cleaned appropriately, for smells of the bile kind are the worst.
As I leave the shower to grab the towel first, Benny, the Boston terrier, too obsessed with food to worry about decency runs from the room. I glance down the hallway reminded me of what I had forgotten would happen. He ate the puke. “Ah well, at least the chunks are cleaned.” My lazy brain isn’t even grossed-out, but I am pleased with his thoroughness. Every piece, and all the largest chunks of goo, up. Now all I have to do is spray. My daughter is done, I let her know what the dogs did, she shames them, a learned response.
As I go down stairs after assisting a young girl with a pull-up, Benny runs past me and proceeds to vomit the previously consumed vomit on the edge of the carpet just after the tile floor next to me. He then runs deep inside the kennel, for he knows this is not good. The once vomited, vomit now has stained two places. Cleaning both would prove worthy of my time as though I sprayed a vomit-scented Febreze throughout the house by carrying the tainted clothing items into the basement. Again, where is the camera angle that cuts away until my wife gets home?
As the spots are cleaned, the smells are at least covered, a now calm daughter and her partially showered dad sit on the couch and proceed to spend the next hour watching Sesame Street while Elmo’s World talks about feet.
“Huh, that show sure does have a lot of puns.”
The evening ends on a cautionary note. I know we have to go to bed, but I also know she might not be done. I fear her laying in her own fluids. I fear that the camera’s night vision won’t pick up the chunks and they will go unnoticed. Sleep on this night will not be restful.
My advice to parents or would-be parents, see the humor in it all. I am not perfect, however how I chose to view things was from my daughter's perspective taking away the sting. Not the smell so much, but that is what the actual Febreze is for.
God Bless.
A child’s system is small, small in stature, supposedly small in quantities, but quicker, more efficient than us adults. As we get older we tend to slow in our abilities. Not just reflexes or ability to obtain knowledge, but in how efficient the system runs overall. When a child’s speed is utilized to discharge matter from its fragile being, there is no preparation, for the wave will come and the aftermath is felt by all.
As the warm material submersed in a stringy, snot-like goo was expelled onto the side of my face, dripping down my shirt onto my lap only to be inhibited through the thick hairs on my beard, the speed amazed me most of all. I was not upset in the, but rather impressed. After all, the words, “Daddy, I don’t feel…..” were all that the mind could muster. All the sensations in the little body said something wasn’t right here as she took off down the hall, turned around and it happened. My initial thought was, “Well, I know that feels good.” Quickly followed by, “Oh, I should catch this.” Neither were helpful in the moment, outside of the humor of the intensity of the sense. On the second discharge only separated by a breath, I cupped my hands and caught this pile, then another, and by the fourth, I dropped it all for there was no plans of how to get up, how get that leaky, goo to a toilet.
It is always the humorous display of a bumbling father covered in some kind of goo while mother is away to indicate the ultimate insult to injury. As though the father was somehow “stuck” in this situation and is now paying the price. As the camera zooms in to the goofy, stained face of material the audience is supposed to find a sort of humor in the scene. The only reason humor is felt is because we can imagine that scene, we can recall maybe not the exact same thing, but at least something similar, for we have all at the least had frosting from decorating cookies on our face. When you have a child there is always something on a face or shirt or pants, because there is always something on her hands.
This was my scene, this was where the camera guy was supposed to zoom in and witness my goofy response to the bodily discharge dripping from my beard. The trombone was supposed to play a Waaa Waaaa and the picture fades out the next scene where it was all behind me. This was not a movie and that isn’t what happened. Instead the cleanup was worse than the action. As the sad child feels embarrassed, shameful for her making a mess, she screams, “It was an accident,” and my heart sinks. She feels bad. I have to act as though her throwing up on me, my face, this letter I was holding, is no big deal, for even a slight grimace or show of disgust may reinforce that feeling.
The clothes drop to the floor, both hers and mine. I am willing to do what I didn’t think we would, take a shower together. Now there is no option, for we both need cleaned and I am dripping this, “What is that, tomato? Looks like clam chowder?”, everywhere. She is sad, but I can tell she feels better.
Once in the shower she laughs, plays, all is right, and I am OK, with the situation overall. However, I know that outside that shower curtain, in that bedroom of hers, there is a smell, a pile of vomit, and clothing material. A rug has to be cleaned appropriately, for smells of the bile kind are the worst.
As I leave the shower to grab the towel first, Benny, the Boston terrier, too obsessed with food to worry about decency runs from the room. I glance down the hallway reminded me of what I had forgotten would happen. He ate the puke. “Ah well, at least the chunks are cleaned.” My lazy brain isn’t even grossed-out, but I am pleased with his thoroughness. Every piece, and all the largest chunks of goo, up. Now all I have to do is spray. My daughter is done, I let her know what the dogs did, she shames them, a learned response.
As I go down stairs after assisting a young girl with a pull-up, Benny runs past me and proceeds to vomit the previously consumed vomit on the edge of the carpet just after the tile floor next to me. He then runs deep inside the kennel, for he knows this is not good. The once vomited, vomit now has stained two places. Cleaning both would prove worthy of my time as though I sprayed a vomit-scented Febreze throughout the house by carrying the tainted clothing items into the basement. Again, where is the camera angle that cuts away until my wife gets home?
As the spots are cleaned, the smells are at least covered, a now calm daughter and her partially showered dad sit on the couch and proceed to spend the next hour watching Sesame Street while Elmo’s World talks about feet.
“Huh, that show sure does have a lot of puns.”
The evening ends on a cautionary note. I know we have to go to bed, but I also know she might not be done. I fear her laying in her own fluids. I fear that the camera’s night vision won’t pick up the chunks and they will go unnoticed. Sleep on this night will not be restful.
My advice to parents or would-be parents, see the humor in it all. I am not perfect, however how I chose to view things was from my daughter's perspective taking away the sting. Not the smell so much, but that is what the actual Febreze is for.
God Bless.
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