Mirror
My son inserted his entire fist into his mouth last night effecting the evacuation of his stomach contents onto the floor, his PJ's and, amazingly, under his firmly planted feet. It happened like this... as I was rinsing his toothbrush, out of the corner of my ear, I hear the gag-reflex we all know and hate. I look over at his PJ clad, three-year-old little body just in time to witness dinner chunks mixed with stomach acid spewing forth around his fat little fist. My very first reaction was wonder at the fact that he was regurgitating a portion larger than his dinner had consisted of. I take full responsibility for suggesting to him (on a daily basis) that his "sister" is our black Lab who has never chewed a single piece of food in her entire life for fear of not being able to ingest the entire bowl of kibble before some unknown force swoops it away for some unknown reason. However, I stick to my guns about my son's dhal and rice with a dollop of ghee dinner being significantly smaller than the puke resting warmly on the floor, regardless of how many times he did not chew. My second thought is, "What the fucking fucker goll dang fuck!?!" Or as my kid so frequently inquires, "Whhhy?"
I decide to take the low, passive-aggressive road and make a fantastic display of how put-out I am because I have to clean up this kid's mess as he stands there stunned at what he has just managed to make his own little body do. So, I huff and puff my way through the backbreaking task of wiping up the sick, I groan and glare during the weighty undertaking of re-brushing his 20 tiny teeth and I grumble and gripe amidst the laborious exercise of changing him into fresh PJ's in order to really hit it home without directly saying, "DUDE! I'm severely annoyed with my whole and entire puny life!"
Instead, I performed an Oscar-worthy rendition of 'Passive-Aggressive Me'. My little guy stood in shock as I exposed my grotesquely negative underbelly. The next morning I went to my therapist and open up yet another can of feculent worms.