He does this at the most inopportune times (now that I consider it, though, any time is rather inopportune for this). I can usually see it coming. I’ve learned when we go to restaurants to watch for the nuances in his expressions that let me know he’s about to blow.
And blow he does! It’s not simply spitting food discreetly into a napkin – he spews. He explodes. He erupts.
The worst time I can recall out of the years of this happening in almost every eating establishment we have visited as a family was at Blue Sky Cafe, our very favorite local restaurant where the waitresses don’t even have to ask what we want to eat when we go.
It was a pretty crowded evening, and the setting is cozy anyway. We enjoyed our dinner with no incident. The kids behaved and no one spilled anything, argued, cried, choked, or broke any dishes (not that any of those things have ever happened when our nice little family eats out). We tipped our favorite waitress and got up to leave.
Ronnie decided to carry Max out. He grabbed him around the waist and playfully swung him through the air as he scooted out of our tight table. It was just like a slow-motion reply as I saw what happened. I saw “the look” on Max’s face just a split-second too late.
Max started projectile vomiting as soon as Ronnie picked him up, and because Ronnie was swinging him through the air, the vomit arched through the air with momentum. It was like one of those photographs that captures water in motion. A perfect arch of orangy-colored nastiness stuck in mid-air. If only it could have stayed stuck. Of course, inevitably, it had to land.
Oh dear. This is still so embarrassing to think about. Those poor people who were innocently sitting there enjoying conversation over dinner. I guess I really don’t need to explain what happened.
We sent our waitress flowers the next day.
We really liked the restaurant, after all. We wanted to be welcomed there again.
You know, we get some strange looks from people when we eat out and we scold our son at the table. I know people think we’re odd when they overhear my vehement whispers, “Maxwell Trenton, don’t you dare choke! Don’t you even think about choking. Do. Not. Throw. Up.”
What can I say? He can totally control it (just ask him). And I can’t afford flowers for every waitress in town.
If you hear us out in public threatening our four-year-old about choking, now you understand why.