I was making dinner when I got the call. To be exact, I was making pork chops stuffed with carmelized pear and bacon, with wilted spinach on the side. The call I got was not from God, Ed McMahon, or the major leagues, but rather from Jennifer, in that hurry-up-something-bad-is-happening sort of voice. Upon rushing upstairs, I discovered that–wait, first, I have to say that Anna has never been a barfer. As a baby, sure, she had the occasional minor spit-up. But nothing that wasn’t caught by a burp cloth. Only on one occasion has she had a stomach bug that had her throwing up, and that only lasted one evening–once in the tub, and thereafter in a bowl we had provided for her. What a good kid. That said, I return to the present. I discovered that Tara had spit up, and in a single salvo, had fouled:

• Everything she was wearing
• Everything Mom was wearing, through to her underwear, except for her socks
• The towel on which she was laying
• The chair on which mom was sitting
• The floor on which the chair was sitting

Cleanup involved two loads of laundry, some elbow grease, and no small amount of comforting. Tara was fussier than usual for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, and she has had more than the usual amount of reflux; hopefully this is a temporary situation and not some sort of more serious stomach bug.