Prettiest Puke Ever

Fourteen years ago, during the first thirty days of her pregnancy, my Lovely Wife had reason to believe she might be in for a smooth ride. She woke in the morning feeling well and maintained a normal appetite throughout each day.

It would seem Our Daughter's prenatal interests did not include instilling the kind of nausea, hunger, hot sweats, chills, mood swings and homicidal tendencies we'd been warned were the potential side effects of the typical, healthy pregnancy.

Then, at the end of that first month, the turkey incident unfolded.

The turkey breast, rubbed down liberally with our signature combination of herbs and spices, went into the oven while my Lovely Wife rested in the bedroom. Our house at the time being relatively small, it wasn't long before the gamey aroma of roasting fowl hung heavy in every room. I opened the oven door to baste the half-baked bird when I heard a weak voice calling me.

The overwhelming smell of the turkey had somehow jump-started the morning sickness my Lovely Wife had so far been able to avoid. With a skin tone matching that of the uncooked bird, she informed me of the need to remove both the turkey and its scent from the house with an urgent alacrity. I must confess, I momentarily struggled with the idea of chucking a perfectly good meal in the trash, but I quickly came to my senses.

Within minutes, the roasting pan was sitting out on the back porch and every window in the house was opened, ceiling fans drawing in the fresh, frigid winter air. I tried spraying Lysol to help cover the offending odor, but it only added to the nauseating mixture. The upchuck bucket -- a small, spare plastic trash can -- made it's debut that evening. It didn't leave our presence for four solid months.

It took us a few weeks to settle into a mealtime routine. Dinner options were limitless, providing dinner had no detectable aroma. All meals were eaten at home, since eating out would mean being within unreasonable proximity of a functioning kitchen in which heat was being applied to one ingredient or another.

We eventually found the one meal her stomach and nasal passages could handle: chicken tenders and French fries from Golden Corral, both smothered in the melted cheese from the potato bar. The checkout girl at our local Golden Corral could spot me from a mile away. Before I could open my mouth, she had my take-out order rung up. As a show of moral support, my staple meal became steak & fried shrimp with French fries. I even applied a generous covering of the melted cheese sauce to prove how much I loved her.

Just because we'd discovered an acceptable staple meal, however, did not mean my Lovely Wife's stomach suddenly stabilized. If Tums antacid tablets were habit forming, then my Lovely Wife would have been a hardcore addict. Deposits in the upchuck bucket were as prolific as they were predictable. I consider my time spent cleaning that bucket amazingly appropriate preparation for the diaper changing that would come.

But one day -- when the 24-hour, 7-day-a-week morning sickness had an exceptionally tight grip on her -- my Lovely Wife handed over the upchuck bucket and I recoiled in shock. There, in the bucket, was an assortment of pastel colors, each color separated from the others like some delicate frothy pousse cafe. In retrospect, it really was exceptionally pretty, as upchuck goes.

Unnerved and confused, I searched for just the right words to express my loving concern.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

After a few minutes, we realized the picturesque layers in the bucket were caused by the various colors of the Tums tablets she had taken leading up to her latest deposit. We laughed until it was time for her to throw up yet again.

I've cleaned up my share of bodily fluids since then, but never anything quite so artistically expressive.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Blood, Guts & Giant White Socks

Of all the genes I could have passed along to my children, the two I hoped would at least end up being recessive are those responsible for my extreme lack of pigment and random nose bleeds.

Sunburns are no fun, take it from me. Some people spray on a light coating of SPF 10 or 15. I encase myself in SPF 70 and allow the required time for it to soak in. My Lovely Wife still can't believe I got a sunburn at the State Fair in October almost 20 years ago when we started dating.

Fortunately, our daughter browns better than a buttered turkey in a 400-degree oven. And the boys, despite their apparent paleness, both aquire moderate tans during the summer months.

As for nose bleeds, I had some doozies when I was a kid. One time in high school, just before the homeroom bell rang, a gusher came on and there wasn't a tissue in sight. I walked the length of the building to the nurse's office trying not to bleed on anyone, occasionally taking advantage of the situation to gross out a few friends along the way.

Unfortunately, the Italian seems to be carrying on the tradition of the bleeding nose.

Evening hours seem to be his shnoz's favorite time of day to let it flow. For the most part, the problem is easy to deal with and far less disgusting to clean up than the average upchuck, which occurs far more freqently than bloody noses do. I venture to guess I've cleaned more vomit off floors, out of carpets and bed sheets and clothes, out of buckets, and off the backs of toilets than a janitor in a bulemia clinic.

When she was two or three years old, our Darling Daughter projectile-vomited several pounds of fishy crackers across a room, nailing my Lovely Wife square in the chest and almost destroying a shag carpet. We spent hours cleaning up that unholy mess. Thank goodness it didn't happen in our house...

In fact, the nose bleed is a no brainer by comparison. Sit the child on the edge of the bathtub, lean his head forward a little, pinch the bridge of the nose, and wait for it to stop.

A few months ago, the Italian got out of bed with a nose bleed and wandered into our bedroom with his hands up to his face. In his short pajamas, and with his complete lack of insular body fat, he sat in the bathroom shivering while we tried to stop the bleeding. I offered to get him something to keep him warm but he didn't want me to leave his side. So, I did the next best thing -- I took off my socks and put them on his feet.

It was one of those moments when you wish you had a camera, because you know you will never be able to recreate the moment, not that you would really want to if you could but you know what I mean. There he was, in shorts and t-shirt, eyelids hanging heavy over tired brown eyes, holding a tissue under his nose, giant white socks pulled halfway up his thighs, and a dreamy smile on his little face. He still had them on the next morning at breakfast.

I much prefer that image to the one that woke me a few nights ago around 1:30am from a deep slumber.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the light from the television. I had been asleep for less than an hour, having worked late into the night writing my book. My mind was struggling just to figure out where I was when I felt a nudge at my back. I turned over to find the Italian hovering over me, looking like an extra from a zombie movie. Blood covered the fronts and backs of his hands and his entire face was smeared red.

I like to think I don't frighten too easily, but I have to admit I found myself struggling to remember how to spell 9-1-1. I've seen dying snake-bite vicitms on the Discovery Channel who looked healthier than this nine-year-old, blood-stained boy standing at my bedside.

Getting him cleaned up, stopping the bleeding, and tucking him back in bed without waking anyone else in the house was easy. Getting myself back to sleep was the hard part.


(c) 2011 Mark Feggeler