Vomit played a big role in my childhood. Some kids were scared of the monster in their closet; some were afraid of the dark; some were afraid of dogs. I was scared of vomiting. As you could imagine, this led to some stressful nights for me, since childhood is the second pukiest time in your life, right behind college. The following series of events would transpire seemingly every month. I’d awake with a start, go to my parents’ room and nudge my mother, moaning “I don’t feel good.” She’d ask in what way I felt bad, even though she knew perfectly well what was coming. Back into my room we would go, where I would sit in my room, working myself into a frenzy of anxiety, as my mom tried to keep a bucket in front of me, like some sort of carnival game. At this point, the infomercials would be turned on, and I would try to let Ron Popeil’s dulcet tones soothe me back into wellness. Eventually, the big moment would come, and I would freak out, as Mom desperately shoved me toward the bathroom, where, for reasons unknown, I refused to go. I would probably puke a little in the carpeted hallway, then have a weeping meltdown in front of the toilet, where I was scared of kneeling, apparently believing that it was the toilet itself which caused vomiting.* I would try to talk my mom into letting me puke in the bathtub(!) but she was unmovable on this point. Finally, I would let it all out, somewhere, probably not in the toilet, the barf screaming out of my mouth and nose, which really burns the sinuses, and maybe soiling myself a little in the process. Mom would strip me, and give me a cold washcloth and a bath towel, and send me, semi-resentfully, back to my room. She would begin a long night of scrubbing, as I would occasionally drop by, still crying, saying “I’m sorry” over and over again, as she cleaned. I would ask for a Sprite, and drift off peacefully as I learned about Ronco’s fantastic new Electric Food Dehydrator. Mom still had a while to go before she slept.
*I don’t recall this, but Mom relishes telling the story of trying to force my aim down at the bowl, and I rebelled, puking up the wall, almost to the ceiling, my head arcing upward, like a wolf howling.
