So, here’s my gross story.
When my son was about 2 years old we had an apartment with a loft bed. Basically a bunk bed with only an upper bunk. My home office occupied the space under it. Great space saving feature for a small New York apartment.
One night I was watching TV in the living room and my wife, who had gone to bed with our son, called me. “I think the baby is going to throw up.” I rushed into the bedroom to the ladder for the bed, arms up and asked her to pass him down quickly. I sure didnt want him to get sick up there.
Sure enough, as soon as she got him over the edge and into my outstretched hands he let loose. I got it from head to toe.
I’m usually pretty squeamish about vomit. I will do anything to avoid doing it myself and will gag if I see someone else puking. This didn’t faze me though. I knew then that I was cut out for this fatherhood thing.
