I was having a dinner party for friends. Of course. The first time he threw up was just as I was serving dinner to my guests. He puked right there on the kitchen floor. Splat.
"Bon appetit!" said my husband.
Hours later, as the poor boy rested in his bed and we the adults chatted downstairs, I heard the pitter patter of little feet thundering down the stairs. Just as I met up with him in the living room, he splattered the wood floor with his ginger ale.
"Thanks for coming!" said my husband as he ushered our guests out the door.
Later, I tucked my son into bed, stroked his forehead and put a bucket next to his bed.
"Why didn't you run to the bathroom when you felt sick?" I asked. I mean, he had to run past one bathroom and down an entire flight of stairs to reach (or in his case, "miss") the second bathroom.
"Because you can't hear me upstairs," he said.
Which leaves us with a question: If a boy throws up in the toilet upstairs and no one hears him, did he really throw up at all?
I'll leave that for all the eight-year-old philosophers to ponder.