“I think I’m going to throw up.”

My son had a stomach bug recently, which was stunning. This kid simply does not get sick—at least not the my-stomach-hurts-where’s-the-nearest-toilet kind of sick. I think the last time his stomach revolted was the Great Black Beans And Rice Debacle of 2000. He still can’t look at the stuff.

So when Jesse complained of a stomachache, it was big news. But because he hadn’t been this kind of sick for a long time, we had both forgotten how to handle the situation.

I got him settled on the living room couch, which thankfully had been professionally Scotch Guarded, and placed a garbage bag-lined wastebasket near his head. I gave him these instructions: if you can make it to the bathroom, great. But if you feel like you’re going to be sick immediately, lean over into the wastebasket. So far, so good, I thought. It was all coming back to me.

For a couple of hours, he was generally miserable, and I made cooing noises and encouraged him to drink clear liquid through a bendy straw. I also gave him the pink liquid medicine all kids get when they have an upset stomach. Twenty minutes later I remembered why I had vowed never to give that stuff to him again.

He jumped off the couch and announced he had to throw up. I said, “Okay, go ahead.” I’m not sure what else there was to say in that situation, but apparently he needed more.

“Where should I throw up?” he asked.

Because he was sick, I refrained from telling him that I had already explained the parameters of where to throw up, depending on how immediate the need was. Instead, figuring that he had already taken the time to announce his intention and ask where he should do the deed, I predicted he had enough time to make it to the bathroom.

“Where in the bathroom should I throw up?” he asked.

Now I was really stumped. I didn’t know how many options he thought there were. “The toilet or the sink,” I replied, feeling slightly panicked that the window to make it to the bathroom was closing rapidly.

He began sprinting through the dining room on the way to the bathroom, and I heard a loud thud. I looked into the dining room in time to see him on the floor on all fours. I assumed that in his haste, he had run into the dining room table and fallen to the floor. But no.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that while he had been running, he had thrown up on the hardwood floor, slipped, fallen to the ground, and was proceeding to add to the growing pink-tinged mess.

After his episode had concluded, we were both frozen in place. I was torn between laughing and crying, and he had no idea what to do. He was surrounded on all sides by a moat of gunk, and I didn’t know how to get him out of it without him tracking the gunk all over the house. Finally, I grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen, mopped off his feet, and guided him toward the shower.

While he was enjoying a half-hour shower—complete with singing—I had time to fully take in the mess that lay before me. As I lowered my pregnant body to the floor to begin scrubbing, I wondered momentarily why scenarios in which you’re on the floor cleaning up half-digested toast never come to mind when you start thinking another baby might be nice. TPW