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It isn’t a party until someone yaks

Our church small group meets bi-monthly to share a meal, an occasional Biblical lesson, laughter, prayer, and a good deal of frivolity.  We have been blessed to be part of this group for nearly 2 years now.  They are my people.

On Sunday night we met for a social evening which included a wonderful meal, great conversation, and the kids were able to frolic in the pool.  Whenever swimming is involved, Fiddledaddy’s inner lifeguard rears its head and he is on high alert.  Meanwhile, I was hunkered down at the kitchen table with the women folk, laughing my fool head off.

At one point, one of the children came in to alert my friend, Michelle, that her 2 year old son (Jack) had just spit his chicken into the pool (thankfully, it was her pool that was sullied).  It seems that Jack has developed the habit of spitting out about every 5th bite of food.  The pool was a handy receptacle.  A cup was dispensed and a child was assigned pool clean up.

Within moments, another child came in to inform me that Jensen was vomiting.  Reluctantly, I looked out the sliding glass door to the corner of the screen enclosure wherein Fiddledaddy was patting the back of his boy as he deposited a good days worth of groceries onto the landscaping.

I did what any caring responsible mother would do.  I closed the sliding glass door and sat back down at the table, with my fingers in my ears, and eyes shut tight.

As you might remember, I’m a sympathetic vomiter.  Oh no, it’s not that I exhibit sympathy whenever someone is tossing their cookies.  To the contrary.  I have to leave the area code so that I don’t add to the mess.  It’s really for the good of everyone involved.  Fiddledaddy understands this.  We all have our gifts.  Mine were not on display Sunday night.

It seems that when Jensen saw Jack spit his chicken into the shallow end of the pool, he naturally assumed that Jack was in full on yak mode.  So he began dry heaving on the concrete, not far from all the other children and the pool.  Fiddledaddy deftly sprang into action and guided his son over to the potted plants.

It was a proud moment for me.  (Realized much later.)  I have a son who is a clone of his father.  On this night, I had proof positive that he DOES share my DNA.

I have already begun praying for his future wife.  And it should be noted that Jensen’s former betrothed, E, was in attendance.  When she realized that Jensen was projectile vomiting in the corner, she paled as she told her mother she needed to immediately exit the screened porch and get a little breath of fresh air on the swing set. FAR FAR from the madness.

Proving that should they ever rekindle their romance and marry, they should live with/near Jensen’s future mother-in-law.  The end.