I Rule

Mom was sleeping off a night of caring for Exorcist child. Child was sleeping off a night of pea-soup spewing dementia. Sister was playing Polly Pocket. Dad, the dedicated worker bee, was working on manuscript on the coffee table in the living room.

Father hears a faint moan from child. He gets up, goes to her room. She stares at him, bewildered, angry.

"Are you feeling sick," he asks, considering the fact that it's been 12 hours since Belezebub reared his ugly head.

She looks at him with baby Harp Seal eyes. And coughs the cough of someone who is about to let loose a torrent of horror from her gut.

This is where dad suddenly excels. He goes into super slow mode. No trash can in sight. No towels. Nothing to protect the child's bed from the sudden flood about to hit the loving print of Care Bears staring up at him. Funshine Bear needed protection from tummy juice.

Still in super slomo, Dad schoops up child and darts out of the room, across the hall and plants her in front of the toilet, ready for the show to begin. Just as child is about to relieve her pains, dad notices that his vigilant effort to always put the toilet seat an lid down (he is the lone male in the house) is about to bite him in the ass.

As the first retch begins, he engages super speed and whips open the lid. Child vomits successfully.

As gross as this post is, it does have a point. She was the cutest girl whose hair I've ever held while she puked.

That, and I don't do well in these situations. I get nauseated just thinking about it. The only reason I'm writing this right now is because I know that as soon as I go back up there, I'll be surrounded by the very germs that ruined my baby's day.

And they're gunning for me.