…when your oldest child, who does not frequently eat foods that are highly processed or very sugary, pukes after a morning of back-to-back-to-back special treats.
This past Sunday, Liam surprised the girls with some chocolate milk he had brought home from work. The girls both chugged a small glass at breakfast at speeds which would have impressed my college beer drinking friends.
An hour later, during church, Nora snacked on some trail mix I’d made the day before for her younger sister, which had gone uneaten. In it were nuts, dried fruit, and chocolate chips.
After church, we went out for brunch, where the gluttony continued. Nora’s choice for the feast: Belgian waffles smothered in Nutella and topped with bananas. Looking back now, the chocolate was spread on rather thickly.
Of course, I did my best to eat half of the serving to save her from sure overdose. And also because I may have encouraged her to order them in the first place, so I could sample them, and save myself from the embarrassment of having to order two meals for myself (I am eating for two, right?).
Anyhoo, Liam and I were cracking up laughing while watching Nora eat the waffles. Her mouth was stuffed full, and her chewing seemed slow and laborious due to the stickiness of all the chocolate. It’s a wonder she didn’t fall ill right there at the table.
When we got home, after her younger sister had gone down for a nap, Nora helped me to line the baby’s new dresser with contact paper. She followed me into the bedroom at one point and made a random comment about how it had been awhile since she’d last spit-up (she’s only ever thrown up two times before in a span of a few of days, earlier this fall). “Uh-huh,” I acknowledged, wondering why she had decided to bring this up in the first place.
Later, I overheard her telling my husband that maybe it was the smell of the new dresser that made her feel like she was going to spit up. What was it with the spit-up comments?
And still later, while we were coloring together at the table, Nora remarked, with slightly more concern in her voice, that she felt like she needed to spit-up. OK, I thought. She’s for real. She must not be feeling well.
We went to the bathroom where she hovered over the toilet for a minute or so, seeming not sure of what she intended to do. I asked her if she just needed to go potty to make her stomach feel better.
“No,” she said firmly, “it’s not in my belly, it’s already up to here” (indicating her upper chest). I chuckled. I thought this was a pretty accurate description of where and how one feels the about-to-throw-up sensation. She didn’t get sick, but instead went to lie down on the couch with Liam.
I also chose this time to lie down in our bed and get some much needed rest. I woke up forty-five minutes later to sounds of husband and child in the bathroom, post-puke session. I guess Nora had gotten sick all over her dress and the afghan and part of the couch—a chocolate explosion, according to Liam, who would go on to swear he smelled chocolate barf everywhere, all the rest of the evening. So glad it hadn’t been me.
Nora felt better almost immediately, never got a fever, resumed playing normally, and never threw up again that day or thereafter. So, I’m guessing it was the surplus of chocolate.
Parents of the year, here at our house. Guess we’ll go back to limiting weekend treats to just one at a time. And, probably going to pass on the Nutella-covered waffles at brunch in the near future. Pancakes and maple syrup are probably a safer bet.