Bleeaahhh

We played hooky from church yesterday because Zachary threw up, etc. I had the bright idea that, for supper, why don't we grill some hotdogs? I had forgotten that I'd "outgrown" hotdogs years ago (but my kids love 'em). Towards the end of the day Zach seemed to be doing good, no more "incidents", so we all took a ride through the country and ended up at the neighborhood Publix to buy the necessaries for grilling.

La dee da. Through the grocery store we go, with me pushing one of those enormously cumbersome half-car half-cart buggies. Both kiddies had a steering wheel, however for some reason they felt the need to repeatedly touch the other steering wheel, causing me to periodically intervene with Daddy-looks and threatenings. And then, it happened. Zach calmly says, "I feel like I need to spit-up." We're in the back of the store, near the meats, and my eyes go wide. Thinking fast, I do the only logical thing. I lean close, flare my nostrils, and ask, "What'd you say?"

Monica is in front of us, and in slow motion turns around and begins moving toward the buggy. I grab him under the arms, whirl around, and fast-walk towards the back of the store, without looking back. I feel like I'm on the bomb-squad, and we've got to clear this building now! Move move move! Once we clear the doors, I start running to the car, with the idea that it's better to barf outside than inside a grocery store. Zachary calmly says, "Slow down, Dad. You're making it worse."

We made it! I open both car doors on one side and position him so he can barf in relative privacy. But nothing happens. False alarm. He says, "Can I go back inside?"

"Whachu talkin' 'bout Willis? No! You ain't goin' back inside!"

A few minutes later Monica comes out with Esther and a few grocery bags. The first thing she says is, "You could've told me you weren't coming back!"

Bleeaahhh.