Super Sunday's

Gracie’s tendency towards vomit is a fascinating, disgusting thing.

She pukes a lot. You know this. I talk about it often because, at times, it feels like an all encompassing part of my dynamic with here. It’s a fear that lurks in the back of my head.

Her top three reasons for yacking are: illness, distress/crying and not chewing her food. The last one is the semi-preventable topic that I can’t seem to semi-prevent.

Now *fade into* Superbowl Sunday.

Mmmm … snacks galore. Meatballs, pizza bread, fruit, cheese … it was a baby bonanza fueled by the energy of being in the house of folks born, and somewhat raised, in Pittsburgh.

I guess I just didn’t realize how much Grace was eating. And just how big the pieces were that she was shoving into her mouth.

I kept giving them to her, so I guess I should have, but it was a party. I was talking. Kids were running around. Matt was off in the basement playing Wii, so the supervision consisted of my lax eye and a 10 year old.

About two hours into the party, I chased Grace into the kitchen. She’d reached the wall and could go no further. You could see the flint in her eye, she was not about to be caught. She was not having any diaper changes.

But then, the look changed. I saw the flash. I knew the flash well.

Oh no, Gracie don’t!

Too late. (Not that I really believed my plea would make any difference.)

Blaahh. Blaahh. Blaahh. (She is just like me. I think she is inheriting my OCD. She like things in three’s.)

Now there is all 2 hours worth of said snacks, along with 2 sippy cups of milk, all over their party-prepped kitchen floor and throw rug beneath the sink.

Ahhh…. Michelle? Ummm, I’m so sorry, but my daughter just threw up all over you floor. I think you’ll want to wash this rug.

She gets it. She totally understands. She’s got three kids.

But still. Please, please, PLEASE stop puking Gracie. You have molars! Use them!