Feeding my Grandson

Ah, that reminds me of kindergarten. We were all sitting around a table eating our stale graham crackers and drinking our gaggly milk when the kid directly across from me quietly threw up in his lap. We're talking about 20 four and five year olds, and I was the only one who saw him do this. Then he sits there and looks at ME miserably with sewage all down the front of his shirt.

My stomach lurched. My stomach lurched, again. I refused to throw up. I kept my mouth firmly shut. I refused to throw up. My stomach lurched, yet again, and I was sorta like Mt. St. Helen's. Puke, just like lava and electricity, will follow the path of least resistance. I kept my mouth firmly shut, and two streams of vomit spewed down my front, out of my nostrils.

There was a 60% casualty rate. At least a dozen four and five year olds spontaneously erupted. It was chaos. And the only thing for sure was everybody crying and pointing at me. I smelt sour milk for a month.

There was a dance later. Let's say that I learned many lessons about rejection.

And ejection.

Sigh, I threw up on a Shore Patrol in Olongapo one fine night, too.