It took me two weeks to the point where I could write about Father’s Day — my first. Not the day itself. That was wonderful, and really gave me time to think about what it means to be a new dad. It helped me put in perspective what this little 6-month-old munchkin means to me (beyond the tax deduction), and I savored the moment.
It wasn’t Father’s Day I needed separation from — it was “the incident,” which is now becoming a parent’s day tradition, as our little girl did the same thing when we went out to eat on Mother’s Day.
Three guesses I give you. Need a hint? In college, this act signified the end of a VERY good night, or the beginning of a VERY bad morning. In Roman times, they had special places for you to go and do this after an expansive meal. It’s one of only two things your child can do in public that can horrify and embarrass you to the point that you consider changing zip codes. The other is breaking out in a Barry Manilow tune at the top of her lungs, and I haven’t experienced that one yet.
But I got the full effect on this. There’s nothing quite like baby public vomitation.
My wife had taken us out to an early dinner, and thankfully we were planted in an all-but empty section. Thankfully, otherwise, someone might have died.
We often take the baby out and have never had any problems. But that’s because this is a kid who likes to save it all up for special occasions. And she must have been saving for weeks.
There is no delicate or nice way to put this: it was torrential. Torrential like when rain-swollen rivers in far-off lands overflow their banks and sweep away entire villages. Torrential like scenes of children uncorking fire hydrants for a summer cool off. Torrential like dams bursting.
I sat in my seat, eyes pressed against the very edges of my eyelids with my mouth agape like a pelican begging for a fish.
“Damn,” I think I muttered, “that kid can hurl!”
There is no reacting. Just sitting cold in your seat until your wife throttles the situation by yelling out, “Burp cloth, now!”
I snapped out of my haze and remember thinking, “Burp cloth? What the heck are we going to do with that? We need a hose or to sneak out the back exit.”
That’s when you leave a very large wad of money on the table and a little note scrawled out on a paper napkin that reads, “Sorry. We promise to never come back.”
What if people had been sitting around us? As it was, the stroller was soaked, the baby was coated, my wife had been severely nicked, and my mettle was tested and cracking.
It’s times like this when you realize the world doesn’t have enough baby throw-up stations or HAZMAT suits.
The whole experience was vastly similar to the lunch I took my wife to on Mother’s Day. Then it had been with my brother Scott and his fiancé Holly. All had been going well, until while Amelie was standing on my wife’s lap, we had an incident. It was like watching a car wreck. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, nor could I compute exactly what was happening. Why’s the baby foaming at the mouth, I thought, but it clearly wasn’t foam. I noticed the emergency exit, and considered it.
It didn’t faze my brother, who stuffed another bite of food in his mouth, but I could tell by the look on Holly’s face that she had put off having kids until the day senility finally carries off the memory of that whole experience.
The only two crazy public experiences we’ve had came on mother’s and father’s day. Maybe it’s fitting, the universe’s strange way of telling us our lives will never be the same again.
So be it. It’s part of being a father, and I can always change zip codes.