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According to Hofmann:Throw up, throw down, throw all around

By Mark Hofmann mhofmann@heraldstandard.Com 5 min read
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Parenting comes with a lot of repetitiveness, which helps us to adapt to routines.

Some routines I found with my 9-year-old stepdaughter, Emma, over the years include the first day of school, the last day of school, hosting sleepovers, shooting flaming arrows in the night sky on New YearĢƵ Day and, my personal favorite, her getting sick and puking–the Puke Plague as I call it.

The latest plague started as it always does with Emma acting suspiciously quiet as she and my wife, Amber, were walking her upstairs for bedtime.

I was bringing up the rear and carrying supplies for EmmaĢƵ bedtime like her favorite blanket, her favorite stuffed animal, her favorite drink and her favorite book, which is the autographed hardback edition of “The Anarchist Cookbook.”

And anarchy Emma did release upon us as I heard her hurling right before I walked into the bedroom to see a pile of puke on the floor while both Emma and Amber stood over the contents, staring at it like they just witnessed a dog reciting poetry in perfect iambic pentameter.

I, being Mr. Obvious, asked if Emma disembarked dinner, which broke Amber away from the sight and said, “Yes, Mr. Obvious.”

Knowing the routine all too well, I immediately fetched a trash can in the bathroom and rushed back into the bedroom to hand it to Emma. As I stepped away to get cleaning supplies, she again delivered more pavement pizza, but the second wave landed nowhere near the trash can, which makes perfect sense since I’m the one who had to clean it up.

Even though itĢƵ obvious by looking at the evidence, I asked Emma what all did she eat that day because I was trying to measure out how much material she has left in her tiny 9-year-old body. It was almost becoming something of a magic trick that she chundered THAT much already.

During every incident, my wife, whoĢƵ a certified medical assistant with years of experience in the medical field, runs away from puke like itĢƵ a rabid jackal.

“Make sure the bucket is in front of her, Mark!” she instructs me from the other side of the room. “Make sure you hold her hair back, Mark!”

Hold her hair back? I’m trying to figure out a way to do fatherly things in that situation like constructing a cot next to the toilet to avoid any more cleaning, not hold her hair back while sheĢƵ opening the technicolor fire hydrant in the bushes like I’m her BFF at a frat-house kegger.

Speaking of cleaning, you can tackle that mess with the efficiency of a crime-scene cleanup service worker with OCD, and that area still isn’t going to be used for sleeping that night because, at the very least, itĢƵ still wet and, therefore, still have the traumatic memory of how it became that way.

Also, no amount of Lysol and hypnotic suggestions could eliminate the smell of her woofing her cookies on the bedroom carpet, so the ideal move would be cocooning Emma in Saran Wrap and have her sleep in the bathtub, but since I try to avoid “interviews” from the authorities, we had to move to the other bedroom.

At that point, you basically become a nomad in your own home because no matter how much you prepare for the inevitable future rounds of gale-force burps, the kid will always somehow manage to soil the sleeping area and then you have to find a new place for everyone to sleep.

You find yourself constantly looking for a place to hunker down while reminding yourself that you’re going to have to find a new place to go after the ka-ka hits the fan or it literally hitting the comforter.

An average journey will start in EmmaĢƵ room, then all three of us in my room, then all three of us using the couches downstairs, then me on an unsoiled couch with Amber and Emma on an air mattress, then Amber and Emma sharing an unsoiled couch while I’m learning to sleep sitting up on an armchair sofa, then to the car and finally on sleeping bags outside, trying to stay close to the house after deciding to set it on fire to stay warm and rid it of the vomit smell once and for all.

But the incidents eventually ended with the new day beginning as I woke from my three hours of sleep to start a new work day. Emma, however, has the day off from school, laying down, eating popcicles and Jell-O while watching TV, Netflix, Disney+, YouTube and pirated Japanese sporting events on her phone when sheĢƵ not taking naps throughout the day.

Meanwhile, I’m snorting lines of instant coffee powder in a fruitless effort to stay awake and coherent as I’m being interviewed by police on why I’m allowing a girl to sleep on a cot next to a toilet in a house with severe fire damage.

It really is enough to make you sick.

According to Hofmann is written by staff reporter Mark Hofmann of Rostraver Township. He hosts the “Locally Yours” radio show on WMBS 590 AM every Friday. His book, ”Stupid Brain,” is available on Amazon.com.

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