It happened again: Another tale of vomit on a Sunday morning I'm getting a strange feeling of deja vu.
You'll remember I blogged about Elliot's breakfast being regurgitated during the Eucharist a few Sundays ago. What is it with vomit and Sunday mornings? There seems to be a conspiracy.
See, this morning, I didn't even go to church. That alone should have ensured I would not be at risk from any free-flying bodily fluids. Mom was going to church this morning (back to her old Pentecostal church for a baby dedication -- a brave step for her, and one that she couldn't have taken this time last year), so I was called on to cover for her in the store. At least I'm safe from some kid puking up right in front of me, I thought to myself. Well, someone with a sadistic sense of humour was listening.
In comes this customer with a baby in his arms, straight over to the chocolate rack -- we're talking thirty or forty different brands of the stuff -- and without warning, the most foul-smelling mess you can imagine just splats everywhere. It sluices like a dam broke, covering everything. Only a small baby, but boy, has he been practising for some time, I tell you. Yeah, he's been saving up for the big one this time. No half-measures. He might be only six months old, but he's been waiting for this one, dammit. I don't think I would be putting too fine a point on it to suggest this was premeditated. Cold and calculated.
So, Dad and I are standing there surveying the damage, trying to decide what we can salvage from the wreckage. By now it's all dripped down underneath the rack, and this is going to take a major recovery operation.
It takes an hour or two to get things back to normal. Everything has to be moved, 'cause this gunk has got into places I thought were airtight. There's something supernatural about the way that vomit gets into every conceivable place. I mean, you have to be a good shot to cover this much. Not many grown-ups could do such damage, but this baby is a master of dexterity and physical agility in the chucking-up stakes. Frankly, I am as impressed as I am disgusted.
Dad does the honours of cleaning up. The combination of terror and revulsion on his grimacing face as he wipes away the sludge and slime is an image that will not disappear quickly from my mind. You feel you've seen another side of a man when you've see him mopping up five litres of putrid baby-bile.
I am charged with replacing the chocolate. Though everything is cleaned up, the stench remains.
This is not the first time, either. Though I don't work often in the store nowadays, I have witnessed this kind of merciless baby-puke-attack before. Several years ago, a one-year-old chucked up in front of the gum rack. Back then, I was the one who cleaned it up, and the memory still lingers (painfully). I stuffed half a pack of chewing gum in my mouth to try and block out the smell, but all it did was manage to put me off that brand of gum for the rest of my life -- an association thing, you know.
Anyway, back to this feeling of deja vu. What's going on with Sunday mornings and vomiting incidents? Before a few weeks ago, vomiting incidents occurred in my life seemingly only at random. There's a darker side to this now. A pattern is beginning to emerge.
Tell me I'm overreacting, but when I looked into that baby's eyes this morning, there was -- well -- there was something evil in those eyes. I can't be fooled that easily. I've seen The Omen.
I'll let you know what happens next Sunday. In the meantime, I beg you: Pray for my soul.
Dave
2:11:27 PM 
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