Don’t let the title fool you. This isn’t a post about some higher form of parenting, or a new age way of thinking – nope, it’s about good ol’ barf. Vomit. Puke. You know, real high brow literature.
You see, a few years ago whenever my daughter Ryleigh would get sick to her stomach – which is one of the most saddening things to see as a parent, your poor child turn completely white or green in the face and they look to you for comfort and support and you know there’s nothing you can do about it – so whenever she’d get sick to her stomach and barf, I’d do my best impression of a Red Sox player crouched down at home plate.
I’d totally, 100%, catch that barf in my fucking hand. Like a champ. Nay, like an Olympic athlete who played for all countries together, united as one in the good name of sport.
I know it was gross.
And yet I can’t explain for the life of me why I would do it. Every time.
“Daddy, I’m going to be sick…” and here comes Super-Dad to the rescue with his magic cupped hand, ready at the chin to catch that hot, steamy, stinky, chunky puke. You hungry yet?
It was important to never make eye contact either. If I made eye contact, she would see my own fears about catching the puke and she needed me to be strong for her. Or something like that. I always just looked off in the distance and let my inner monologue remind me, in a British accent for some reason (probably to make it more convincing to myself), you’re doing this because you love this child more than anything and will do anything to keep her safe and comfortable. Even catch a handful or two of puke.
Apparently I’m not the only Dad who dabbles in a game of pukey-palm. I’ve asked around, and it’s more common than I thought. Must be an instinct we all have. The moms, not so much. Another reason why women are superior to us men: they have very little interest in catching puke in their bare hands.
So recently, my son Grayson had an upset tummy. At first I thought he was faking to try and trick me somehow. He’s in that stage where if he doesn’t get his way or if I give him trouble his go-to fake-out is, “My tummy hurts.” So I did my best to explain the story of The Boy Who Cries Wolf. If you’re not familiar with the tale, I suggest checking it out. It’s a riveting romp of an adventure that might just have you rooting for the Wolf in the end. Sometimes it’s just nice to cheer for the underdog.
Anyway, back to my son and his upset tummy…
So we’re sitting at the table having pizza for dinner (a pizza that Ryleigh and Grayson made themselves; so proud of my kids!) and he’s not eating it. “My tummy hurts. My tummy hurts.” I sternly let him know that if he doesn’t eat his supper there will be no treats later. Bam! Ultimate parenting card played!
He then cuddled into my lap at the dinner table. “My tummy hurts.” I looked in his eyes. He looked in mine. I knew that look. I had seen it before. And there was the Wolf. All over my shirt, all over my pants, and all over my dinner.
Not a single drop in my hand.
I am so getting better at this whole parenting thing with each passing day.
-ryan
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