VOMIT: an act or instance of disgorging the contents of the stomach through the mouth
I don’t clean bathrooms or take out the trash. And I don’t do vomit.
Okay, the one time Son vomited, I was a key player. But, he’s my kid and that’s what I signed up for (my lawyers say I should have read the fine print of the motherhood contract my uterus signed). But, yuck! Despite my boundless love for him and my fear for his well-being it was still disgusting. Give me a fever. A room-clearing cough. Sneezes that send snot down to the belly button. But, please…no vomit!
At a party a few months back, a child vomited in the hallway. I was repulsed. The hostess calmly grabbed her cleaning supplies and went to work. I quickly relocated far, far away. I didn’t know the kid and I wasn’t hosting the party. Score one for “guest” privileges!
If that had happened at a party I was hosting, I really don’t think I could be that gracious of a hostess. I would be more likely to yell, “Somebody help that kid!” as I plugged my nose and ran for an exit. While I may be contractually obligated to deal with my own children when they vomit, I am certain I never signed anything binding that says I have to deal with someone else’s.
Those who can, do. Those who can’t, run away in search of fresh air.