Train Up A Child (To Make Sure They Puke In The Toilet)

When I became a father (with a shout out to my wife), I envisioned that there would be lessons I would have to teach my child: i.e. walking, talking, reading, writing, riding a bike (again, shout out to my wife).

Then there were the "manly" things which I could impart wisdom like shaving and understanding women. (OK, I may have asked my wife for some advice about women, so AGAIN, shout out to her.)

One area I didn't count on needing to teach was that when you are sick and need to throw up, do so in the toilet. It was, and has been, a real shocker that lesson has had a hard time sticking.

Let me pause right now to say that if you are squeamish, you may want to stop here. I mean, didn't you read the title?

We've all been there, right?

Let me also pause to say that when our children are young, i.e. infants and toddlers and even little kids in the 5-7 age range, I can give a pass when they are overcome with sickness and the sudden uncontrollable urge to expel everything they have consumed since breakfast two days earlier hits them. This may happen in their bed in the middle of the night. It may be in the backseat of the car. It may be walking down aisle 7 at the local grocery store.

Accidents happen.

We have understood that concept since our oldest threw up blue (yes BLUE) vomit on our beige carpet when he was about 4 years old.

It was a tragic case of our entire family coming down with food poisoning and its cruel time-delayed reaction. It was a Sunday afternoon and we were at home. We had gone to church earlier in the day, and was our religious custom, my wife and I fed said oldest fruit chews to keep him quiet during the service.

Now, said oldest child, at the time, was obsessed (yes, OBSESSED) with "Blue's Clues." You may

remember the Nickelodeon show of a guy named Steve who had a blue dog named, oddly enough, Blue. Blue would communicate with Steve by playing a game where Blue would leave paw prints as clues to tell Steve that he was hungry, needed a bath, wanted to go to Vegas, etc.

And as part of the show's craze, there was ample marketing of toys, clothes and fruit snacks. But I digress.

So we'd basically been loading up this 4-year-old vomit cannon for half an hour with blue gummy candies completely unaware of the impending Mt. Vesuvius v. Pompeii scene that would play out in our living room.

But again, accidents happen.

Then there are other times when you figure a person has to have some early warning about what's going to happen. I mean even when I've been sick, I can sense when things are about to go bad.

My oldest still, for whatever the reason, hasn't truly caught on to the concept of doing a mad dash to the bathroom and then, when properly placed over a receptacle that can handle such a deposit as we are discussing here, well... you know...

To his credit, he has made it into the bathroom. But the part where he gets into a pre-heave position over the toilet is what we're (and I mean we're) lacking.

The latest incident occurred when I was downstairs, minding my own business and watching "Vikings" on The History Channel, when I heard the thundering steps that only a 16 year old male can make go into the bathroom and shut the door. What followed was a mixture of moaning, grunting, howling and sounds of a hard April rain hitting the sidewalk by my living room window.

Horrified, I sat still; not wanting to engage yet concerned with what I would find if I did. Then from the bathroom I heard in a husky, panting voice ask for ... a stool.

A stool?

"So I can sit down!" He was frantic at this point.

While I was still trying to understand why he needed to sit (to take a break?!?), my lovely, loving wife emerged from our bedroom, where she had been watching either "Downton Abbey" or "Real Housewives of Atlanta," and informed me in her usual commanding way that could order young men to storm the beaches at Normandy or tell me that I "iron wrong" that, and I am quoting her, "I've got this!"

It was immediately proceeded by her running back into our bedroom, her hand clutched over her mouth, and telling me, again I am quoting her, "I don't got this!"

So I lumber upstairs, armed with paper towels, beach towels, Lysol spray, and a bucket (for emergency mobile use), to tackle whatever was on the other side of the bathroom door that was so bad that my wife did not use proper grammar.

It (and I don't think I have to tell you what "it" is or was) was on the floor, the counter, the mirror, the shower curtain, and toilet seat. Not in the toilet, but on the seat.

"Are you alright?" I asked in my usual loving tone.

"Where's my stool?" was the reply from my sick, disoriented son who didn't realize the gravity of the present situation.

At that moment, my usual loving tone departed from me. As I surveyed the carnage I explained that he did not need a stool. That people who are sick and throwing up do not need stools. What they DO need is a toilet bowl in which to leave the remnants of Captain Crunch, school cafeteria chicken nuggets, chalupas or whatever the HECK THAT IS, Gatorade and God knows what else that was in your stomach.

Full of wrath, I wiped and swiped and disinfected and sprayed and tried to keep myself from being sick too. I informed him that, and I am quoting myself, "In my day, we made it to the bathroom. We made it to the toilet and we hunched over the toilet when we threw up, like man is supposed to do!"

Worshiping a the porcelain alter.

I then went on to explain that if we felt we needed to take a break but were not ready to leave the bathroom or didn't think it was wise to do so, we would sit on the edge of the bathtub. OR if we were tired or exhausted, then it was permissible to even kneel by the toilet bowl or even recline against a wall. But we were not "privy" to such luxuries as a stool or chairs. You might get a cold washcloth for your head, but that was it, and there may need to be a doctor's bill at the culmination of it all to justify soiling a bathroom in such a way.

So here I am now. In a little more than a year, the oldest will be leaving the nest and entering college (God willing). And there will likely come a time when he will need to spend some period by a toilet bowl in contemplation over actions that have left him in a state in which he is, shall we say "unwell." Hopefully, he will be able to have learned and take with him the lessons of handling one's sickness and the proper etiquette that goes along with tossing one's cookies.

So my prayer is that in each day he will grow wiser. Or that his college roommate and/or future wife is nice and understanding and isn't one who "don't got this!" Because at that time, I may not got this either.

Me Being Me

So. Where to begin? An introduction is in order, for certain. Most of the people who will see this already know who I am, but for any newcomers to the party I will explain myself. Literally.

Showing my love for the Cubbies.

My name is on this blog, so that should take care of that. Professionally, I have spent my entire career in communications. I first started off as a "deejay" at an FM radio station in Madisonville, Kentucky, and then moved into the world of print journalism. I stayed with it for 20-plus years and held jobs as sports editor, managing editor and editor until finally I decided I had enough of having stories "spun" for me and that I would try my hand at doing the "spinning."

In 2008, I began a public relations career with the American Cancer Society that connected me to wonderful people across the South. Five years later, in a move that is becoming more and more common, my position was eliminated and I took a job in development, or fundraising.

Earlier this year, I was let go by the Society and now am searching for my next gig. But in the meantime, I thought I would see what I could pen to try to stay sharp with words and creativity and perhaps share a bit of my opinions too.

Some of my personal side may bleed into that. I am a husband and father to two sons. I am a band dad, which means I am extremely proud of both my boys' talents and support the work of the arts in our schools. Don't get me started on how music and theater are pushed to the side in our schools! That's for another time.

While I am not a stat-spewing baseball fan, I have come to enjoy the game ESPECIALLY when it comes to the Chicago Cubs. There will be plenty to write about there! And I do enjoy golf, despite my horrible slice that I have had for years and have tried everything this side of a witch doctor to try to fix. More on that later, as well.

I am fascinated by politics and especially this lunatic asylum American voters have been given as "choices." But more so I want to see partisanship and power grabbing and posturing pushed aside so that we can do what is best for our country and not just for one political party or one politician. I'll get on my soap box there, too.

But one thing is for certain. After 40-someodd years of life, I want to find a voice. My voice. I want to say what is inside me and not be fearful of what anyone might think. I need to turn the page on my own vulnerability.

One of, if not THE most amazing things I have ever had shared with me was a TED Talk about vulnerability. After I watched this talk by Brene Brown, it was like the scales fell from my eyes like they did from Saul's. It was incredible and gave me a little sense of courage that I hadn't really felt.

So after some life changes that were not of my doing, I wanted and needed to exercise my vulnerability and find the strength and courage that comes from this. And here we are.

My goal, just to make it clear, is to write at least once a week. I don't want to just slap something on this blog and it not be worth reading. I want to have something that hopefully will make you laugh or think. It may be as lengthy as this post (which is a lot longer than I had planned) or it may be a couple of paragraphs.

But I want it to carry some meaning to it. And carry some me-ing to it, too.

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