A Vomit Story, The Fairytale

Friday night was date night around here. Fiddledaddy was taking his small girls to an Ice Cream Social for Princesses and their Prince. The event was sponsored by their scouting troup. Anticipation was at an all time high.

I prepared an easy dinner for the party attendees. A crustless spinach and tomato quiche, with some hash browns on the side. The girls came to the table. Cailey said, “Ewwww”, then saw my expression and added, “I mean, Ohhhh, mmmmm.” That’s better. My girls are usually not picky eaters. The son is a different story. He won’t go within 20 feet of a green bean, but he can scarf down a container of cottage cheese in one sitting. So, I just hide a multivitamin in his apple sauce and hope for the best.

We tell the girls that they need to be sure and clean their plates, so that they can partake of the yummy ice cream at the Ball. Cailey finished, but Emme had some trouble. She took an extra big bite in an attempt to get it over with. And the gagging began. Her eyes bulged, she turned red, and began with the retching. Past experience told me this was serious and that we must GET TO THE BATHROOM, AVOIDING THE CARPET AT ALL COST. She made it to the kitchen. And graced the entire kitchen floor, herself, and me with a full helping of spinach and tomato quiche, plus hash browns, and a little lunch from earlier in the day. She panics. And cries. Her only concern is that she can still attend the Princess and Her Prince Ice Cream Social. My only concern is that I don’t add more quiche to the floor. We all know what happens to me when I even think someone is going to hurl. And it seems to only happen when we’re on our way to an American Heritage Girls function. From all appearances, this seemed to be related to a healthy gag reflex, and not illness.

The Prince puts on his coat and tie, looking dashing, and gets the girls cleaned and placed into their beautiful dresses. And off they go to The Ball. While Cinderella is left on her hands and knees scrubbing puke off of the cheap linoleum.

The evening goes as well as can be expected, as I’m told later. Considering you have a bunch of men in suits who don’t know each other, and their little princesses, most of whom are too shy to socialize. The shy gene is dominant in my two daughters. But there was a little dancing and the ice cream was delicious. And it stayed inside my daughter, where it belonged. That’s what mattered. When my husband was driving his dates home, after much silence, my Cailey chirps up, “My, that ‘shore’ was a good party!”

The theme continued the next day when Emme kissed a frog in our backyard. No, not a neighbor boy. A slimy green frog. The amphibian population has declined since we moved here. We were made aware of this infraction by the local narc, the younger princess. The Prince, who is very germ conscious, blew his crown.

The Queen mother just shakes her head. How is it that she will gag on spinach quiche, and yet kiss a frog. On the lips.

Well, she comes by it honest, I suppose. I had to kiss an awful lot of frogs, before I found my handsome prince.