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November 19, 2007

On the way back from picking up The Wife from her overnight shift, The Girlie did the emesis-thing. Projectile, in fact. A bronze trumpet, forcefully emanating from her open mouth. Spewing mango juice, partially chewed raisins, and stomach acid all over herself, her clean clothes, her infant seat, the seat of the car, her newly laundered diaper bag nestled at her feet, and the freshly shampooed carpets on the floor. In spite of the instantaneous realization that this three-stage evacuation of her stomach entailed a fair bit of smelly work for dear old dad, I couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor kid.

“Did you throw up?,” her mother empathized, as we swabbed her with baby wipes and she cried.
“Up,” she sobbed, with perfect enunciation.

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