My Name is Hurl

slime.jpgAdam was diagnosed this week with yet another nasal infection and was subsequently prescribed two full weeks of Amoxicillin. For anyone who has never tried to syringe 1 ½ teaspoons of medicine that looks like Pepto-Bismol, smells like cotton candy chalk board erasers, tastes like a Rolaids Flurry and has the consistency of warm yogurt into an 8 month old I can only use the following analogy.

Imagine you need to administer antibiotics to your car’s windshield wipers. These just aren’t any windshield wipers though; you actually gave life to these windshield wipers. In fact, you love these windshield wipers unconditionally and you would do anything to make sure these windshield wipers were safe, healthy and protected. The problem is that these windshield wipers are set on high and every time you are actually able to get an ounce of medicine in them they either immediately spit it back out or it causes them to throw up their entire lunch of Oatmeal and Gerber Summer Squash.

The post-dinner open fire hydrant vomitorium, or “complete and total barfarama” as expressed in the movie Stand By Me during the Lardass Pie Eating Contest scene, happens with such regularity that it has become almost routine. Last night, for example, I was reading to Jack at the dining room table while he was nibbling at his dinner when suddenly Kathleen spoke a single word from the kitchen and it’s only after being together for 17 years that we could be so telepathically connected and in tune with each other that I could ascertain from just that one word that she was in distress and in need of immediate my assistance.


Upon entering the kitchen I felt like I’d instead walked on to the set of You Can’t Do That On Television and Kathleen had just uttered the phrase “I don’t know.” If Jackson Pollock used puke as his medium and mothers and their babies as his canvas Kathleen standing in front of the sink holding Adam doused in antibiotics, Garden Vegetables and Mixed Cereal with Applesauce & Banana could have been his piece de resistance. “My son is a prodigy! Even his barf has its roots in abstract expressionism.” I proudly thought as I intuitively did what any concerned and queasy father would do at that moment and that was to avoid actually touching the regurgitated baby food and instead make a bee line for the paper towels. “Oh just take the baby for Christ’s Sake, I’ve got throw up in my bra.” Kathleen said thrusting Adam into my hands before running upstairs to empty the stomach contents from her brassiere and rinse off in the shower.

When she returned a few minutes later Adam and I were still in a Rafiki holding Simba at the edge of Pride rock Lion King pose; Adam kicking his legs and laughing while I avoided stepping in his congealing Hakuna Matata. She motioned for me to hand her the baby and no one would get hurt; which I gladly did. Then, while she was upstairs cleaning him up, I used ½ a roll of Bounty: The Sicker Picker Upper to wipe up the masterpiece on the floor.

We only have a few more doses of antibiotics so this exhibit will be ending early next week. The art gallery and Adam’s esophagus open nightly at 6:30. There is no admission charge but two-ply donations are gladly accepted.


One thought on “My Name is Hurl

  1. Pingback: Damnit Jim. I’m a Father, not a Mother. « Make it a Double

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