Vomit 2, Bruising 0

Emily is wearing a straw-and-fabric-blossom lei around her neck.

“Come here, Timmy, and you can wear it, too!” She offers him the other end. He tips his head forward. She tips hers, too, and lifts the other end of the necklace. The sharing is laudable, but that loop just isn’t that long. I foresee disaster.

“Emily, Timmy. I don’t think that’s a very good idea. If you both wear it at the same time, you will bonk heads and fall down.”

They stare up at me. Expressions blank. Either they don’t get it, or…

“Maybe that’s what they want,” the Husband pipes up. (He’s working from home quite a bit these days. I’m not minding the continuing bus strike so much, I confess.) “Maybe that sounds like a good time to them.”

“Yeah!” Timmy has no idea what was just said, but he recognizes important words when he hears them. “It’s a good time!”

Woo.hoo.

And really, who knows? You’ll recall the topics of rivetting attention yesterday were vomit and death, with a side of poverty. Vomit was the focus of most of their attention, undivert-able. Vomitting in the night, vomitting in the toilet, vomitting in a bowl, on sheets, on the carpet, on DADDY! (Emily’s house apparently saw some GOOD TIMES over the Christmas break.) The colour of vomit, the smell of vomit. Your teeth hurt just before it comes up, did you know that?

And it really, really hurts when it comes out your nose. Especially when there are carrots in it.

(Yeah, well, I didn’t really need to think about that either, and what choice did I have?)

In fact, it wasn’t me so much as my husband who bore the brunt of it. He and his laptop, sitting at the dining table, diligently creating a comparison chart for a negotiation he’s conducting. (Yes, he really does WORK from home when he works from home.) And all around him, the chatter swirled. Vomit and death, death and vomit. And more vomit. (He says he gets much more work done at home than in the office. His powers of focus and concentration are really impressive.)

This morning, fresh start, fresh conversation. The children chatter about snow and breakfast and dryers and boots. Grandmas and grandpas, Cinderella and the colour pink and noodles with cheese. All sorts of cheerful, everyday stuff.

Until, that is, Husband enters the kitchen to prepare his morning capuccino. The hissing and humming draw the tots like moths to a flame. All other activities and conversations cease. They pull close and peer up, eyes round.

And the conversation starts. Two room away, sitting on the couch, I can hear Emily’s voice: “… bowl… baffroom…bowl… sheets…”, and I call down the length of the house.

“Is that child talking about vomit again?”

The husbands voice is rueful. “Yes.”

“You sure do bring that out in them, don’t you?”

We hit it together. “So to speak.”

So really: If vomit is so utterly fascinating, then maybe head-bonking is even better: Vomit is explosive and goopy and all, but big black-and-blue goose-eggs? The Epitomy of Cool.

They’re three and a half. Who knows?