Appropriately enough, Lori spent Saturday night puking her lungs out. Poor little girl. I didn't believe she was actually going to spew. Call it "The Little Girl Who Cried Puke" syndrome. Sometimes Lori has difficulty differentiating between that overly full feeling, gaseousness, and honest vomitateousity. When she says she has to puke, I usually point to the bathroom and roll my eyes like, "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

At 1AM she still hadn't puked so I pulled her out of the bathroom and tucked her into bed. As an afterthought, I went to the kitchen and grabbed the three-gallon pasta pot. (I'm estimating the three-gallon capacity. The pot is smaller than a five-gallon paint bucket, but I could definitely pour more than one-gallon of milk into it... thus (5+1)/2=3.) I placed the pot next to her bed, pointed at it, and said quite unsympathetically, "Puke there." I stumbled back to bed.

Five-minutes later I was awakened by 6-year-old heaving and retching. Sickly Lori was sitting in bed doubled over the pasta pot. She gagged and a fresh river liquid pepperoni pizza splashed into the barf bucket. Lori looked up at me with watery eyes glistening as bright as the thick saliva rope dangling off her quivering chin. Her eyes spoke to me, "See, Daddy, I told you I had to puke. Why didn't you believe me?" I felt like quite the asshole. I hauled Lori back to the bathroom and let her purge the rest of her guts.

After an hour of dozing in the bathroom with no upchucking, I tucked Lori back in bed again and placed the pasta pot at her bedside. Five-minutes later I was re-awaken by heaving and retching. Sickly Lori was, once again, sitting in bed doubled over the pasta pot. Back to the bathroom at 2:05AM for round #2, which was mostly stomach bile. At Lori's request, I fetched her pillow and blanket and tucked her in on the bathroom floor.

The bell for round #3 rang two-hours later at 4:30AM... Gag, gag. Huck, huck. Spew! I didn't know that a 6-year-old stomach could hold so much food. Round #3 was the last and final round. When I woke up at 10:00, Lori was curled up on the bathmat, sleeping soundly.

And, where was Sherry this whole time? Why wasn't she soothing Lori with soothing mommy words, and why wasn't she dumping the pasta puke pot? Well... when round #2 commenced, I tagged Sherry with the universal sleeping-parent elbow nudge. I was surprised to find her totally awake yet seemingly unaffected by Lori's plight. When I told Sherry it was her turn to take care of Lori, she responded through clenched teeth, "I'm concentrating on not puking." Poor Sherry was ill too, but her well-honed adult fortitude kept her from blowing chunks.

By Sunday evening, both Sherry and Lori were eating solid food and generally feeling much better. Aside from not getting enough sleep, I stayed unaffected through the entire Symphony of Barf in D^#. Hey, they don't call me "Iron Gut" for nothing. ...okay, nobody really calls me that, but I wish someone would. Iron Gut. It sounds so cool, like a ninja name: Iron Gut of the Shiitake Clan... or a gangsta rapper: Iron Gut Killah... or a hotdog eating champ: Hot Iron Dog Gut Eater... or a gay porn star: Iron Gut Up the Butt. So many options, if only my name were "Iron Gut." Damn my parents for their lack of foresight... and, while I'm at it, damn my parents for my lack of foreskin.

Whatevah. My iron gut is feeling grumbly and hungry. I think I'll cook up a spaghetti feast that'll serve six people. I have a great three-gallon pasta pot perfect for such an undertaking. Anybody care to join me? Bring a bottle of wine or a loaf of baguette.
...and so it was written, shenry at 1/10/2005 10:22:00 AM.
...and so it was appended with .