• Becca

Thirty...something!

Thirty wasn't too bad.  Don't get me wrong- I wasn't jumping up and down to hit the big Three-OH! My cake actually said "Happy 29th Anniversary!" PERFECT!  I handled 30 and it's subsequent friends quite easily. I took it just as well as any woman does I imagine.  To help the sting just a little, I bought a new car. 


I clearly remember my 30th birthday dinner with my lovely little family.  Myself aka AW (awesome wife), DH (dear husband), DS( dear son), and DD1 (dear daughter one) , all went to this new restaurant I'd been dying to try right on the beach in Waikiki. Wait- before I dive into this story it's important for you to know that DD1 is a puker.  She was just  little over one year old.  Why we decided to take a baby with a puking problem to a nice restaurant is beyond me. 


We made it through dinner and we were in the home stretch.  Instead of traditional birthday cake I opted for a crème brulee'.  I'd never had one before and since buying a new car I had two reasons to celebrate.  Go big or go home, right?  I had stuffed myself with dinner but made sure to save some room for this mouthwatering delight. 


When the dessert finally arrived, my DH leaned forward and gazed at it.  It was seriously almost too perfect to touch.  I'm lost in the beauty of this holy wonder as I hear it.  I hear the gurgle of what is about to be a mega eruption to the left of me.  To my horror, I look over at DD! who is absolutely green!  GREEN I tell you.  Battle Stations, Battle Stations!  Man your Battle Stations!  In a normal situation (if anything about this situation is normal) DS would be stripping by now.  We have our drill perfected.  When we heard the ominous sound of a pending eruption, DS would quickly discard his shirt and shove it under the her chin like a lightening bold.  I guess we were training him young for a life as a male stripper.  As lightening fast DS caught the puke with his shirt, her daddy or I would grab her and attempt to get her to a safe outlet; bathroom, trash can, flower pot...nothing was safe when we were desperate. 


Unfortunately we had never had a to develop a RRP aka Restaurant Regurgitation Plan. We couldn't very well fall into our normal plan of attack in the middle of the restaurant. We sat there motionless....helpless. My DH growled at me, "Get her to the bathroom!!"  Just as I am picking her up out of the damned high chair (what idiot tied her in??!), she begins to erupt.  No, I'm lying to you.  Erupt is too polite a word. She projectile vomited.  Exorcist style! Exploded could even be a more fitting adjective here.  Guess what her target was?  Let me tell you that her aim was dead on.  She hit my crème brulee' like it was a bulls-eye. Poor thing never had an opportunity to be someone's dessert. Not a snowballs chance in hell. 


As I stumbled down the walk of shame with my puke covered baby, I lamented over my lost crème brulee'.  Well technically it wasn't lost- just covered in chunks of chicken nugget and french fries. 


Did I mention that ten-ish years later I have STILL not eaten a crème brulee!?


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