Only a couple of weeks ago, Boo decided that she wanted to throw up. (I wrote about it in my monthly Dear Boobaby letter, but I assume that no one reads those vast missives. Heck, I hardly do.)
She’d gotten a book about medical conditions that — in an effort to make bodily failures not so scary — was illustrated with rather peppy-looking kids breaking their arms, pooping out their runs, and alas! throwing up. Of course, it’s a pop-up book.
Boo was charmed by the idea of throwing up and frustrated that we weren’t letting her try it out. Well, last night she got her wish all over herself, all over her enormously long and tangled hair, and all over her floor. We had wish fulfillment everywhere.
The culprit? Milk.
At least, I think so. A last-minute scheduling surprise had left me with no time to force a real meal into Boo, and she’s one of these kids who won’t eat when there’s anything else even remotely interesting to do. So, a couple of forkfuls of rice and one meatball later, she announced that she was done with dinner.
Much later I decided that most of Boo’s diet had been liquid: she’d gotten milk from both parents and a friend’s mom: textbook diffusion of responsibility. Who knows how much she got, even? A gallon or two, maybe?
Of course, this realization struck only while I was wiping the congealed version of said gallon off my jeans.
And I’d made it all the worse: rewind to when Boo woke up hungry, an hour after bedtime. Not really thinking, I was just exhausted enough forgo real food in favor of a quick and satisfying — glass of milk.
My bad. Add the extra milk to a niggling little hanger-on of cough and an hour later she was, to coin a phrase, tossing her curds.
When I’d cleaned her up and settled her down, I started in on my speech about how throwing up isn’t fun but it’s the body’s way of … well, you can insert your own drivel here. But Boo shut down my oration. She nestled into my lap and whispered in an uncharacteristically timid voice, “Thank you for cleaning me off, daddy.”
And so I shut up. Sometimes lessons are learned without a recitation of the moral. I have no fear that Boo won’t pine for vomit anymore.