I picked up a happy, well-rested Shef from Paul’s this afternoon. Then, I took him to the library where he frolicked and socialized and picked out seven books for the week. On the way home, we stopped at the grocery store for taco fixings, and Sheila and Eric came over for dinner.

What a happy evening.

And then, without warning, Shef puked and puked all over me. There was puke down my back and in my hair and across my neck and in between my toes. After each projectile, as the puke splattered on the floor, Shef said, “Boom.” We were tempted to laugh and smile at his cuteness, but I was too covered in puke to really enjoy it.

I tried to get him to the bathtub, but what happened instead was we tracked puke all the way up the stairs and down the hallway. Dan followed behind us with a mop.

It was so nasty.

I thought vomit-dousing was some kind of Mom rite of passage, so I called my mom to report that I was in the midst of the harrowing trial; and she told me that she’d never been puked on like that. Not once.

Humph.

I’m feeling sick, but I think it’s because the puke smell is lingering in my hair despite a mid-dinner shower.