It was bedtime again. “May I have some milk?” asked Peter. He had become unfailingly polite when he wasn’t throwing a tantrum. Vomiting up any food you try to keep down over the last two days probably contributed to that.
Katherine and I exchanged glances. We remembered picking barfed up chunks out of his hair last night after he had asked for some milk, which lasted all of 30 minutes in his stomach. “He already had a yogurt,” I pointed out. My wife had already been thrown up on twice today. The day before was… four? five? She had lost count. Peter’s most recent pair of pajamas were already in the wash along with other casualties: a blanket, socks, one of the couch cushion covers. A three year old isn’t good at anticipating throwing up, and is even worse at aim.
Given her last few days of cleanup, Katherine had veto power. She shook her head. “How about some water… or maybe some juice?”
Peter nodded. “Juice. A juice box.”
As I headed down the stairs, I wondered to myself what flavor Peter wanted. I asked Katherine, “What goes best with the carpet?”
So I got him apple and white grape. (Peter sipped it and said it tasted like medicine. Then he went to sleep.)