Barf Me Out!

One of our favorite restaurants is Bahama Breeze. I am partial to their Caesar Salad and their Bahamian Kebabs. I don't know exactly what the seasoning is, but I find it irresistible.

However, I don't think we'll be going there for a while. A certain five-year-old took care of that last week.

All I wanted was a quick lunch with Rebecca and Rachel before they went to grandma's for Easter. I had to work the next day, so I was staying behind.

Right after the hot food arrived, Rachel said she had to go to the bathroom. I rolled my eyes, cursed the timing and took her. Within ten minutes, she had to go again. I took her again. During the time in there, again she spoke about needing to barf, loudly enough for others in the men's room to hear it. Finally, I brought her back, hoping my food was still warm. And that's when the fun began.

A few minutes later, Rachel said she had to go again, but with much more urgency. Loud enough for our entire side of the restaurant to hear, she proclaimed, "I need to goooooooo. I'm gonna barf!" This time Rebecca went with her.

I stabbed angrily at my kebabs, rice and beans, glancing toward the women's room door occasionally to see whether they had come out yet. Rachel emerged first, agitated. My wife followed.

As Rebecca attempted to finish her food, Rachel ran toward the front door. "Where are you going?" I asked. "I have to get some air or I'm gonna barf!" she yelled. "Rachel, c'mon!" I implored. "I have to get some air or I'm gonna barf!" she repeated. Not wanting to alienate the rest of the paying customers any further, I escorted her outside.

We sat on a couple of big rocks, because waiting for mommy inside my car was going to "make me barf!" Of course, after a while, she needed to go back inside the restaurant to use the restroom, because she was gonna (together now) "barf."

We drove home. I can't remember whether my wife and I were seething or silent. I think we were both. I hear Rachel walked around grandma's the next day continuing the barf discussion, at one point, carrying some sort of container under her chin.

The next morning, I went to pick her up after my overnight shift, because it was parent-teacher conference day at school for my wife, who is an assistant teacher. I still thought Rachel was faking it, but when she turned down a chocolate from someone and failed to play PBS Kids on the computer for longer than two minutes, when she usually won't budge for an hour, I decided to call her bluff. I scheduled a doctor's appointment.

I thought she might just be hungry. She hadn't had a meal since grandma's the day before. I took her to Chic-Fil-A for breakfast, ordered her scrambled eggs and fruit and watched as she refused to eat more than four bites. I ignored her barf fears long enough for her own parent-teacher conference.

Driving home, I was aggravated enough that I was probably more snide toward her than I should have been. I did tell her I owed her a big apology if she was "actually sick."

When the doctor appointment arrived, she played in the lobby. They called us in, took her temperature. No fever. She was still plenty whiny though. They took a throat swab, which she wasn't really fond of.

Well, guess what? She had not been lying. She had strep. I had to give her the big apology. While she still insists "I'm always gonna be sick" as she recovers, she has forgiven me. For that, I am grateful. I'd hate to work myself up into such a frenzy that I have to barf!