The Little Boy Who Cried Barf

Despite my and Diana’s efforts to ruin our collective gene pool with hard living in our twenties, Elijah was born with opposable thumbs. While useful for Star Wars toy grabbing and Lightsaber wielding, he prefers to use his magic thumbs to constantly open his bedroom door when he is supposed to be asleep.

This stopped being cute after the 1000th consecutive night. And then the yelling started.

Eli is nothing if not smart. He realized his chances of being yelled at were greatly reduced if he drummed up a reason for coming downstairs for no reason.

So he started with the “I need a drink” excuse. But we told him he was on a water ban given his nighttime propensity for urinating in every available receptacle like a miniature Howard Hughes.

Then he cried, “I have ta’ go pee peeeeee!” But standing in front of the toilet, wiener in hand, with no results got him a stern “Little boy who cried wolf pee” lecture.

His latest ploy is to shout, “I have ta’ puke,” from the top of the stairs. Now, this is fairly brilliant because nothing gets us running like avoiding gross toddler barf.

So we let him come down and stick his head in the toilet. He then imitates barfing for a minute. “Blerrrrgh.” If it wasn’t so damned cute it would be dis-gus-ting.

But even the little boy who cried barf has gotten old. Lately when he calls from the top of the stairs, “I have ta’ puke,” I say, “Go nuts. Puke up there.”

And then I’ll hear him go, “Blerrgh,” and then slam his door shut.