Vomitrocity

Jake is a barfer. Freddy's only thrown up once, and it was the most low-maintenance puke ever: a pile of unchewed Kraft Dinner beside his bed on the little area rug. All I had to do was roll it up and toss it over the balcony into the neighbor's yard. Katie's thrown up a couple of times and all she ever does is a teensie tiny little girly puke over the edge of her loft bed. Then she sweetly calls out, "Mommmyyy! I threw uuuuuup!"

But Jake? Ugh. What a mess. One time he ate too much coconut cream pie at his Oma's house and threw up whipped cream all night long and ever since that incident he can't eat anything with a creamy texture or up it comes.

Jake had strep throat about five years ago and I was heading to the doctor for some antibiotics with all three kids in the middle bench seat of our mini van. Jake was on the passenger side by the door, Katie was in her front-facing toddler-size car seat behind me, and Freddy was smashed in the middle between the two of them. We were thirty seconds away from the doctor's office when I heard Jake moan, "mommy, I'm going to throw up..." I yanked the steering wheel, slammed on the brakes and did my best to rush over to his side to open the door but I was too late--Jake purged his breakfast all over himself, his seat, and the van floor.

Well, Katie took one look at the situation and proceeded to empathy-hurl her breakfast all over poor sweet little Freddy. I looked on at the situation, gobsmacked at the overwhelming amount of barf in such a small area of space, and my shoulders sunk in defeat.

I guess I missed that chapter in my pregnancy books.