Groggy eyes half opened. John rolled over and saw his son, Michael, standing in his underwear at the foot of Johns’ bed.
“I don’t feel good”, the five year old stated. His small hands cupped his bare stomach in an effort to keep it from moving around.
‘Oh, great. ‘, John thought to himself. “Go get a drink of water. ”
The boy obediently turned and walked out.
John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair as the sound of running water came through his bedroom door. He looked over at the digital clock next to him. It was 3:l5 a.m. John sighed again. ‘It’s all part of being a single parent’
“Dad?” Michael reappeared at the door.
The boy was clutching his stomach again, trying to squeeze out the pain. “It didn’t help. ”
I’m going to get zero sleep tonight, John thought to himself. “Alright, You wanna sleep with me?” John flipped back the comforter that covered him.
The boy nodded his head slowly and stood where he was.
“Well, come on then.” John said.
Michael sleepily waddled over to the side of the bed and crawled on top. Like a drunk puppy, he walked on hands and knees, finally stopping and coming to rest next to his dad.
John grabbed the comforter below his sons feet and flipped it over the both of them. Laying back down, John turned and faced his son. “How do you feel?”, John said while thinking to himself, What a great kid.
The boy paused and then said, “I think…”
“You feel better?” John asked hopefully.
The boy said nothing.
“You still feel a little sick?”
Michael, only inches from his dads face, looked tenderly into his father’s eyes and said, “I’m gonna throw up.”
Everything went into slow motion.
John began backing away just as his sons eyes inflated to their maximum size. The boy’s body twitched and his mouth locked open into position, ready to fire its watery projectile. Recognizing what was happening, John redoubled his efforts to evacuate ground zero when the toddler bomb hit. He pushed his body away from his son, sliding across the linen in time to escape the first gusher of hot stomach fluids, mixed with chunks of who knows what.
Johns body finally propelled off his bed and landed hard on the floor. Now, fully awake, he looked over at his son.
Michael was sprawled out on the bed, head down, mouth and nose dripping the puce ingestive juices into an ever-widening puddle of brownish yellow, scattered with pieces of last nights’ dinner. The toxic fumes from his sons’ explosion reached Johns nostrils and gave him a wave of nausea also.
“In the bathroom!” was all John could say. Michael didn’t move.
John stood up surveying the impact area. Johns’ side of the bed was covered with slimy, smelly intestinal fluid of his stiff son. Running in his underwear, John reached down and grabbed his son, pulling him off the soiled sheets.
I guess he did eat all of his cabbage... John thought grossly to himself. Holding him at arms length, John raced Michael out of the door, towards the bathroom.
“Dad…”, was all Michael could say before his body twitched spastically in Johns’ hands. The father heard a liquid fountain from his sons’ mouth. It splattered sickly on the wall and floor, just in time for John to step firmly into it. After a few steps of walking on something as desirable as walking on hot coals, John came upon the closed door that led to his bathroom. He sat his drenched son down and grabbed the door handle.
It was locked. The bathroom door tended to lock on its own occasionally.
Usually, when it was most inconvenient.
“DaaAAAAAAHHHHHHUUGGGGGGHH!”, Michael said affectionately to his father, disposing another load of “Michael Juice” onto his fathers’ legs.
Johns whole focus was now on opening that door. Separating the door handle from the door proved to be ineffective. John therefore decided to do the next logical thing; break it down!
Slamming his shoulder against the door, it gave way with a loud crack along with a substantial amount of the door jam. He twisted around, grabbed his child and rushed towards the toilet like a running back crossing the end-zone
Placing his son in front of it and pushing his head down, just in time for the toilet to catch a perfect reception of pass number four.