Seriously, what IS it with this karma crap? I mean, alright already. I’ll be nice. I’ll play nicely with others. Maybe.
Remember the last post? The one about my pukey kid and how I simply don’t do puke? No puke. Period. That one?
Welllll, let me tell you. I may have escaped my own kid’s puke, but I did not escape the overall experience of puke in general. And I do wholeheartedly believe that vomit must be part of the jolly holiday experience. I mean, after all, there aren’t that many days left until Christmas, so surely, somewhere, in some remote part of the world (or in your very own living room), there must be someone projectile vomiting all over the place.
Ok, where was I? Yes, karma. Bugger it anyway. So I was at the gym teaching the little tots class on Monday. This was when my own kid was having Ye Olde Barf-O-Rama at our house, so I was quite content to be anywhere but at our house. Yay, me! No puke!
So, I have one kid in class. One kid. And do you think there’s any way on God’s green earth that kid would turn out to be healthy and germ-free? Nope. Germs abounded, let me tell you.
Now, little miss told her daddy TWICE (not once, but twice!) that her tummy was hurting. Hmmm, might want to take the kid home, Einstein. But do you think he took her home? No. No, he most certainly did not. He just kept giving her little sips of water and sending her back out onto the floor to practice.
Let me interject here to say, if you are the owner of a 2-year-old child who happens to be sick, please keep her home. I know, I know, it goes against every instinct you have to prepare her for the next Olympic team, but trust me, you’ve got time. Her entire gymnastics career will not go awry if she misses one little tots class.
Anyway, after her dad lovingly shoved her back into practice AGAIN, we went to the beam. She did a beautiful walk across the beam, complete with nice, straight airplane arms. But things started to go all haywire when she got to the end of the beam. She sort of turned this pond-slime shade of green, and her little eyes bugged out of her head. She turned in a complete circle, looking for her dad. Unfortunately, mid-turn, she started to spew like something out of The Exorcist.
We’re talking down-my-leg, between-my-bare-toes spew. And without going into hideously gory detail, I feel that I can safely promise that I will never, ever eat another hot dog in my life. Because it was pretty darn obvious what she’d had for dinner. Because it was stuck between my toes.
And here’s what I’ve learned from this recent bout with my friend, Karma. I have learned that I am never going to announce that I ‘don’t do’ things like barf or lima beans or train wrecks. Because I’m pretty sure that as soon as I say it, I’ll be hit full-steam-ahead by a locomotive carrying a load of mushy lima beans. The end.