Well, I have completed yet another ceremony of fatherhood... the vomiting child. About fifteen minutes ago Olivia sat up on the couch doing a fair imitation of a science project volcano. Since we had 5 Guys burgers for lunch, the volcano smelled of french fries.

I've long wondered how I would react to this. I get a bit queasy when I see upchucking in movies, and as I recall my own dad was quite freaked out when I or my brother had a "reverse digestive incident."

But it really wasn't THAT bad. Lift child gently but quickly from the couch, pause. Carry child quickly but carefully, pause, toward the toilet. Place child in front of toilet and then coach the same way I would with college buddies who thought a small jug of moonshine'd be a great way to end the night*. Begin cleanup detail, checking often to ensure child is OK.

Ellen showed up just in time to be Mommy the Hero. She then got to use some of the voodoo juice that presumably won't get the smells or stains out the same way they don't get the cat smells or stains out. Oh well... there's a reason our couch is 13 years old! Take that, you incontinent little fuzzballs. At least one day Olivia'll have a job!

Here's to finding out one is unflappable in the face of a famously gross job of parenting. I would so very much like a drink...

----
* "Hold your head up higher, it doesn't come out of your nose as much then."