I was in the other room when I heard a mad dash, a skidding stop, and a sound of a tidal wave hitting the lino in the kitchen. I ran across the house to find Nicholas dazed and a bit confused, and most of the kitchen covered in vomit. The first thing out of his mouth was:
"mommy, aren't you so proud of me for throwing up in the kitchen and not on the carpet?". Indeed I am.
We had a discussion a few months ago about good places to throw up, and not so good places. Toilet bowl? Best place. Kitchen floor? Next best place. Carpet? Terrible place. So my sweet wee middle child, while snuggled deep in the couch under a few blankets had the wherewithal to dash about 20 feet to spray my kitchen with vomit. He hit almost every surface (I am sure that had something to do with something I should be remembering from Physics 12), but at least they were non-porous, non-carpeted surfaces.
I didn't get off scott free though. About 15 minutes later I started. Thankfully I made it to the bathroom. That night was hell (compounded by the fact Ken was out with a few friends and had no idea of the mayhem he was missing out on at home).
The next day Ken spent the day looking after a sick wife and a sick kid. The two non-sick kids thought they had hit the jackpot because the tv was on ALL DAY. On Treehouse. Ken also found the time to install a brand new toilet in our bathroom. And that night, he spend the better part of the evening christening it. With puke.