Deals and doodads for dudes, dads, and dames.
Get our free weekly newsletter and never miss another giveaway, review, or awkwardly funny story!



Posted January 15, 2010 by Tim Wells in Family

Vomit, and Other Projectiles


The Exorcist or just another night at the Wells’ house? Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

When I started this blog, I had no idea that it would primarily revolve around how much sleep I don’t get or the amount of vileness residing within my children.

In my last post, I focused on my son’s lack of proficiency in physical activities. Now I realize I may have been less than fair in my assessment. Sure, he lacks coordination and physical prowess, but the kid can projectile vomit like Linda Blair.

If projectile vomiting ever becomes an Olympic event, my boy will be bringing home the gold for the good ol’ U.S. of A. And he never misses an opportunity to train. You have to give him credit. He’s certainly dedicated to his craft. Why, just last night, he woke up while the rest of the family was still asleep and began practicing for his shot at glory.

My wife, a.k.a. Saint Dawn, attempted to let me sleep while she got up to assist our son with his regimen. To show my support, I offered words of encouragement and advice, each time Dawn tried to come back to bed.

After our son’s initial volley, “We should try trading the kids in for sturdier models. Maybe there was a recall we aren’t aware of.”

After our youngest daughter decided to join in the fun and offer her own treatise in the art of vomiting, “Remember when we lived in Washington? Before we had kids? I miss that.”

And, to my oldest daughter, when she woke us up because her nose was stuffy, “Honey, have you heard of Angelina Jolie? No? Well, she’s going to be your new mommy. Don’t worry. She can buy you nice things.”

I guess I should just be grateful that the boys (who are responsible for the majority of the puking), actually make it to the bathroom. This is a fairly new development. Not long ago, my oldest son would sit up in bed, yell for Dawn over and over because his stomach hurt, and then redecorate his walls, bed, and floor with last night’s dinner. When asked why he didn’t just go to the bathroom as soon as he felt sick, he would look at us like we were stupid and say, “Because I was afraid I’d throw up.”

My youngest son, on the other hand, got right to the point. There was never any warning before he erupted. One second, he would be carrying on a conversation with you and the next, you were surrounded by nastiness. It was like watching a sleight-of-hand magician. No matter how closely you follow the act, you’re not going to figure out how the trick works.

Now that I’ve thoroughly disgusted everybody reading this, I’d like to leave you with a little riddle:

Q: How many Wells kids does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Three. One to change the bulb, one to hold the puke bucket, and one to wake us up and tell us about it.

Tim Wells

Dad, husband, gamer, blogger, geek. Not necessarily in that order.