Not long before Monkey Boy arrived, our dogs Murphy and Lucy were in the living room on their pillows one evening. Baby Daddy was in the office. I was in the bedroom. I heard a weird noise from the living room. I heard Baby Daddy get up to investigate. Then I heard a slightly freaked out voice, “Um, Kerri… you better get in here.”
I ran into the living room to discover the most disgusting mess of vomit I have ever seen. I am not exaggerating to say it covered a 10×10 space. And the smell. Just thinking about it now can turn my stomach. Since neither of the dogs could speak English, we didn’t get a confession. I blamed Murphy, mostly because I blamed Murphy for most things like that. I was usually right.
Baby Daddy stood there long enough to say, “What are you gonna do about that? How do you even begin to clean that up?” This was not rhetorical. He meant me. He started retching and had to leave the area. He opened the windows to ventilate the house, but I didn’t see him again until it was cleaned up.
I still bring up this incident any time it gives me an advantage in an argument. He has no defense.
Despite his weak stomach that night, he has been a total trooper where Monkey Boy is concerned. He’s changed some nasty diapers. He’s handled 7th grade science project volcanic puke. He has blown the Monkey’s nose and wiped his butt. There has been nothing too gross for him to handle. Until last week…
Monkey Boy and Baby Daddy were racing cars on the living room floor. Monkey Boy suddenly jumped up and declared, “I have to potty,” then dashed off to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later he yelled, “Hey Dad, come here. I need to show you something.” Now this had all the trappings of a redneck comedy hour. Nothing good was gonna come from this. But Baby Daddy dutifully got up and walked to the bathroom.
That was when I heard the voice I’d only heard once before, “Um, Kerri… you better get in here.” I’ll spare you the details. But Baby Daddy stood in the hall trying not to retch while I took care of it. Then I drank much bourbon to try and wipe the memory of “the incident” out of my mind.
Here’s what I now know to be true:
- “The incident” is going to come back up when I have lost all reasonable ammunition in an argument because I fight dirty like that. He still has no defense.
- If I ever hear that voice again, I’m picking up my keys, walking out the door and not coming back till daybreak.