Up Chuck The Boogie

Aahhhhhh... the first sign of spring! No, not robin red-breasts or dandelion puffs, nor warm spots in the air or afternoon storms.

I'm talking about rampant, epidemic retching.

If you've ever had kids in public school, or just in public, then you know what I'm talking about. Something about this time of year - maybe the mocking week of warm weather sandwiched between the other weeks of frigid bitterness, or the tired body's catching-up after months of holidays and long weekends - just seems to make everyone puke.

And dammit, how fun is that???

Last weekend I attended a couple of functions that I had been quite looking forward to. The first was a larger party, complete with live music and tons of friends. The second was an annual Irish dinner of corned beef and cabbage, prepared my my vegetarian friend. Somehow, despite her revulsion of meat, she does a kick-ass job with that corned beef. Yum!

It was one of those times when I was conflicted about having too many fun things to do - I was reluctant to leave the first party because I was enjoying myself (plus, we had a sitter), but at the same time, I longed to be relaxing and laughing with my small group of intimate friends (though the kids came with us for that one). It was a "Thank you, God, for this problem" night.

We left the first party and pulled up to our friends' house, were greeted at the door by their kids, walked on in because we practically live there, helped ourselves to a late dinner, sat down to talk with some of our favorite people, and...

"My stomach really, really hurts!"

Uh-oh. This one always has tummy problems. So I made a spot for her to lie down until her stomach settled and went back to attack my plate some more. Did I mention there was a home-brewed stout???

"Mom, I need some fresh air! NOW!"

So I took her to the porch, where we sat for approximately five minutes, until...

Uh-oh, there's the pizza, again...

Good times!

This was not a sceneario we're foreign to by any measure. In fact, over Christmas we attended a formal party downtown with two other couples, leaving to go back home a little past midnight. We're cruising back, laughing, some of us a little tipsy, playing AC/DC for what it was worth (four of us had attended the concert two nights before), and Jim's cell phone rings.

"Blair's pukin'," says his patient sister.

Oh, well - what are ya gonna do???

We enjoyed oursleves the rest of the drive home, knowing we'd just deal with that when we got there. And sure enough, she hashed all over my black dress, and continued on through the night, while I stayed (though did not actually 'sleep') in a sleeping bag on the floor at the end of her bed. Poor little thing! Sobered me right up, though. No matter how much fun you're having, reality always kicks in at some point in the lives of a parent.

Like the time last year when I went out with the same group of friends with whom I briefly enjoyed the corned beef. I tried to put pink streaks in my hair to be extra-cool. They looked grey, but whatever. We hit a trendy Thai restaurant, a few bars, laughed while everyone made fun of the pink droplets that were running down my face as it had begun to rain, and headed back home with full bellies and large heads.

It was one of those nights when I barely remembered paying the sitter, fell into bed laughing, and then...

"MOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!"

Huh? Am I dreaming? What the hell is that?

"MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Crap. Someone's a-pukin', I just know it.

And sure enough... I'm holding back hair and applying a wet washcloth to a clammy forehead within the next two minutes.

But it's all good, really. Part of the job.

And after all, I can say, "You know, Honey, this is how you father and I met..."