Happy Barfday, Grampa

(Apologies in advance for the gross post. It's gonna get REAL up in this joint.)

My father is, in the fullest sense of the word, a DAD. He is incredibly hard working and self-sacrificing and while he has always been supportive, boy do you know when you have crossed the line. BOY DO YOU KNOW IT. He was probably the most strict of all my friends' parents in high school. Miss a curfew? Never. Drink or do drugs? Hell to the no. Boys? NO FUCKING WAY HE WOULD HAVE KILLED ME AND THE BOYS IN QUESTION. (I had two boyfriends in high school. And I waited until college to do all the other things, much to the detriment of my education). Seriously, I was scared to tell him when I got my first ever C, in college, but somehow I always knew it was because he loved me and thought I could handle the pressure. He says plenty of stupid shit that makes me mad and isn't particularly enamored of my boyfriend, because no one could ever be good enough for me. Cliche? Indeed: meet my DAD. You might as well put his picture next to the definition in the dictionary.

And now, he is a GRANDFATHER. He has a big round belly, which has magical nap-powers. He makes ridiculous goofy faces and noises and ridiculously dotes upon all four of his granddaughters (while not-so-secretly wishing one of them will turn out to be a tomboy, or that I might try to have another just on the off chance we might have a boy).

(Hell to the no, again.)

And so this week we gathered together to celebrate his birthday. All of us at a big ol' table in a cozy family-friendly Italian restaurant. All his progeny in one spot, all the granddaughters behaving beautifully.

AND THEN. My darling elder, without a word, coughed quietly, and threw up all over the table. She was so quiet about it that I had to confirm with Tim. Did she just...?? HOLY CRAP YES, he said. And threw his napkin at the mess, and then as she coughed again he tried to catch it with his hands. But it was not enough. More and more barf silently exited my beautiful kid's mouth and spread out over the table until I snatched her up and flung her into the bathroom, which was blessedly very near. Our sainted waitress appeared with a roll of paper towels, with an alacrity combined with lack of panic that made me think she must have at least three kids of her own.

Poor Little A. was a trooper. After a few tears over her dirty pants, which we changed, (pro tip: never leave home without extra pants, even if they are potty trained), she insisted she felt better! And proceeded to eat spaghetti and chicken nuggets and bread and apple juice and a big bowl of whipped cream with chocolate syrup that the kitchen served to the kids because they were out of ice cream.

And the rest of us enjoyed our dinners, too.Until my brother came back from the bathroom with his elder daughter and described her poo. Fortunately we were just about to get the check. Unfortunately I was in the midst of a losing battle to nurse the baby without showing my boobs.

Moral of the story: PARENTHOOD IS GROSS. GRANDPARENTHOOD, ONLY MARGINALLY LESS SO.

They were surely glad to see the back of us. As I am sure you are glad to be at the end of this post.

Con muchos besos, A