I forgot the cardinal rule of parenting last night.  If your child says "I need to..." followed by a description of any body function, particularly those that involve fluids and chunks, quickly throw them into the nearest bathroom.  There is no negotiating.  You cannot delay, wheedle, plead or reason with said child.

The bathroom door was locked, my child said he thought he needed to throw up.  I said (why, why, why!) ‘you’re fine, lets go downstairs.’ (Why, why, why!) If I were reasonable I would have done the only sane thing: kick in the bathroom door and chuck my child in the direction of the toilet before he could up-chuck on me. I chose the insane thing instead and we went downstairs. 

Three steps across the living room he looked up at me, startled, and said two, haunting words: ‘It’s coming.’  He then exploded, spewing his gooey insides into a horror-movie mess on the floor.  I stared, in shock, at the mess while my son’s outer shell collapsed on the floor like dropped laundry.  I kicked his boneless skin to the side and… ok, I’m scaring myself, he was fine, but he looked no less shocked than I.

He looked up at me. I looked down at him.  He looked at me.  I looked at him ...I looked at him again. Then we turned and looked back at the floor.  I put my hand on his shoulder and said "go take a shower bud." Nothing else could be said.

It was stunning. He’s not big enough to have all that in his stomach. I’m fairly certain that at least three laws of physics were broken last night, not the least of which being that a container that is only yay big can only hold yay much chunks.

To be fair he mistook a stomach ache for hunger pains (why? have a six year old, you’ll stop asking why, it never makes sense.) So he just kept eating, saying he was hungry when what he meant was ‘I’m sick.’

I’ve decided to simply stop feeding him, it’s safer that way.

(What? I have to feed him? Aww crap, fine… here’s a corn-dog.)