I tried to go to my local guitar shop today. It was just me and the kids. We walked into the shop where everyone knows my name (think Cheers theme song) only to have my daughter announce she had to poop. I asked if they had a restroom. They don’t. But the shoe store next door does. So we rushed over to the shoe store (nice shoes. Angry Baker would’ve liked it) and the nice shoe sales person showed us to the very small water closet. It was about the same size as our hallway closet.
So Girl proceeded to dump a couple of loads of diarrhea while Boy and I played games looking in the mirror. Girl then announced her poop had turned to puke. There wasn’t enough room for her to turn around, so I quickly set Boy down, wiped Girl’s butt, lifted her up and around, held her hair with one hand, and kept Boy from climbing under the sink with the other.
We stayed in this stand off for about 10 minutes.
No puke. So finally I convinced Girl that if we could get her a grocery sack to puke in, we could quickly go home. Leaving Girl in the bathroom I took Boy with me to the nice sales person who gave us the grocer sack in which her lunch had been. I then got Girl to wash her hands, gave her the grocery sack, and got Boy into his stroller.
But of course I couldn’t leave well enough alone. We went back into the guitar shop to ask the guitar tech when he would be in next. Girl said she felt like puking.
Now here, good reader, is where you assume she puked all over the $6k 1962 Gibson SG the local guitar shop just put on display. I have built the story up to a crescendo that requires this type of ending. However, this story ends with a whimper. We got back to the car, started the drive home, and Girl fell asleep. Upon arrival home, she awoke and announced the tummy bugs were gone.
I almost went back to my local guitar shop to get the potentiometers I had originally gone in to get. But I didn’t. We had a nice dinner. Took baths. And went to bed after reenactments of the best parts of the Lion King. I was the warthog.