You need to be a responsible puker.

As I was skidding across the tile floor this morning, thanks to the cursed cat's upset stomach and her lovely pile of warm regurgitated wet cat food, my memory was immediately jogged. Far back, to the day I had to teach my youngest daughter (step-daughter in all actuality, but you will never hear that label pass my lips) how to puke responsibly.

It was a typical Monday morning and we were heading to my tae-kwon-do class. She wasn't feeling 100%, and that was my bad for taking her out for an hour. In my defense, I was close to testing for a new belt and desperately needed the practice. I made her a cozy spot on the foam mats with blankets and a slew of all that is Polly Pocket and gave her a RED tasty gatorade to drink.

After class, my mom carpooled us back to my vehicle. While I was switching the car seat into my truck, Lily waited patiently inside my mom's car.  In the two minutes or less it took me to strap the contraption in correctly, Lily apparently decided she was in the Christmas spirit. She turned a neat shade of green and projectile vomited red all over the back of my mother's car. I stared dumbfounded. The car door was open. A simple 30 degree turn of her head to the left would have sent said mass of liquid and cheerios onto the ground. And not all over my mother's car and herself. Words couldn't express my horror.

After a slew of apologies, a mass of paper towels, and a promise for a steam clean- I take my naked child, bag of smelly clothes, and head home. Only to walk in the door and have a whole new puddle all over her and the floor...again.  Only. Feet. From. The. Bathroom.

I'm amazed at my calm, cool, and collected new self.  Something about unconditional love for a child will do that to a woman. I'd beat a normal person down for such irresponsible puking.

"Lily, honey." I say. "Do you know the feeling you get when you are going to get sick?"
Sheepishly, "Ya."
"Why don't you tell me when you get that funny feeling, run to the nearest sink, exterior floor, or toilet so that we don't have to do this again?"
"Um, I don't know where to puke."
"Well peanut, you have to be a responsible puker and go to any sink or toilet."
"Oh. Okay."

Later that evening, I am honored to say, my kid comes out of the bathroom and proudly announces to my confused husband, "I was just a responsible puker, dad!" I wish I could explain the look I was on the receiving end of at this particular moment.
"Responsible puker?"
"Nevermind," I say, and wink at my three year old.