Now, I Understand

In March of 1987, when we seniors in high school, my friend Hilary and I spent a week skiing with my parents, where we became friends with another guy our age in the hotel. Peter had just, as it happens, finished a stint in rehab in Switzerland, and was now on family vacation in the Alps. He told us a lot about drugs. How he didn't do them anymore, of course, but also lots of stories about how much he had done. He also told us of the "power puking" contests that he and his friends had, in which they drank huge amounts and then threw up prodigiously over balcony railings.

He was, despite the above description, a totally likable guy. Perhaps this was because I didn't understand about this whole "power puking" thing. I didn't have an image in my head. About how unattractive it might be. About how awful for the lawn below, or worse, any patio furniture it might hit.

Because, let me tell you, Peter had nothing on my son. Oh the little cute spit ups, sure they're no problem. They're almost endearing.

But yesterday the Bug power puked. He was lying on his back, and he sent up a column of milk like a hose, like a fountain. It curved up and the kid actually cleared his own feet. Didn't get a drop on himself. My shirt and living room couch. . . that is another story.

Can't WAIT until he's a teenager -- there is so much I have to look forward to!