Taco Salad Night... Ruined

repost (Caution: If you have a weak stomach, stop here.)

This happened about a year ago...

Yep. The vomit can happen at any given time and for no reason. It can have nothing to do with being sick. Generally when it happens I spring to action, running to the little child who is puking, only to realize that there is nothing I can do but stand and watch.

I get there, armed with nothing but my hands, and unwilling to use them to catch vomit with.

It happened again, vomiting for no reason. This time some of it got on my shoes. As I sat at a marriage retreat with my wife on Friday night I glanced at my feet, only to realize that there was dried vomit on the side of my right shoe.

I'm class act, all the way.

I was in a fraternity in college. During that time in my life I saw a lot of vomit. A house with young children is a lot like a fraternity house. There's less bear, but there is nearly as much noise and vomit. I knew I liked the fraternity life.

Here's another funny observation: You don't realize it when you're a parent, but it turns out non-parents really don't like hearing the vomit stories. It's funny the things you forget when dirty diapers and throw up are just part of the daily routine.

I love taco salad. Good Lord, I love it.

If I could eat taco salad every night of the week, well, I probably wouldn't. Somewhere in there I would have Arby's, but I would be pretty content to eat taco salad for dinner 6 nights of the week.

Be warned: If you're not a parent and/or don't do well with vomit stories, stop reading now.

This is what it's like to be a father. You see, I love taco salad so much, and yet, my wife doesn't want to make it for dinner every single night (go figure). In fact, she doesn't much care for having taco salad once a week. Pretty much every day, as I make the phone call saying I'm on my way home from work, I'll say, "What's for dinner? Can we have taco salad?"

I have this theory that if I ask with greater frequency, despite the rejections, that it's bound to happen at least a little more often (taco salad night, that is).

The answer is typically 'no.' And let's face it, beggars can't be choosers. I should just be happy that I have a wife who makes me dinner and cleans up after me every night while she let's me run around and play with my children. Of course, I'd give it all for just a little more.

Last night, when I called home, something amazing happened.

I called and said, "So what's for dinner tonight, can we have taco salad?"

The answer, to my great pleasure, was YES!!! It was going to be a taco salad night, and I was downright giddy.

Now, I need to remind you, because this is relevant, that the previous day I had gone to the movie theatre to see Jackass 2. It was funny, but it left me feeling a little woozy. To be certain, one with a weak stomach should not go see that movie. I don't have a weak stomach, but it certainly pushed me to the brink of my ability to refrain from puking.

Back to taco salad night.

I sped home and entered my house, bursting through the door with anticipation, pleasantly invigorated and momentarily satisfied by the aroma of taco meat and Doritos.

A few kisses, hugs, 'hellos' and a quick prayer ("Dear God, thanks so much for great blessings, like taco salad!"), and I was in a state of euphoria, shoveling one of God's greatest gifts to mankind (smothered in hot sauce) into my skinny-yet-gluttonous body with vigorous effort and rampant joy.

That's when it happened.

Let me explain something about barf. When you're an adult you pretty much only barf at certain times. These times include bouts with stomach flu, severe drunkenness, poison and, rarely, moments of severe stress.

It's different for children. Children can barf at any given time for no apparent reason. If you desire to be a parent, you should know this. If you are already a parent, you are all too well aware of the truth of my words.

So I'm sitting there, cramming taco salad into my mouth just as fast as I can, when my precious little daughter, the one-year-old, begins to cough. It's not just any cough, it's the "I'm about to barf" cough. You learn to recognize the different coughs.

And sure enough, about 3 coughs in, barf she did.

Then she barfed some more.

Then some more.

Then, for good measure, she barfed a little more.

By the time she was finished, there was a pile of barf on her high chair tray which, if I had to guess, was perhaps 85% of her total body weight. It was as impressive as it was grotesque.

My other daughter, the older one, witnessing this vile act (vile because it was on taco salad night) began to cough in a similar manner. She coughed and gagged for a while, making the "I'm about to barf but I'm trying really hard not to" face (you know the one).

Thankfully she didn't barf, but this was of little consolation...

Between the existing barf in our kitchen (in a proximity far too close to the kitchen table for the general welfare of my appetite), the dry heaves and the way in which the barf took my mind back to some of the more disgusting scenes of Jackass 2, I was done.