But Who Will Clean Up the Projectile Vomit?

"Mom, I barfed."

I was happily sleeping, comfy in bed, middle of the night, when my 11-year-old son came to me with this news.

Admittedly, this is an abrupt change from the Egyptian revolution at the Snake Charmer's Wife. By the way, I thank all of you for your comments and support and prayers for my dear friend Heba and her family. And I thank Heba for the first hand account. I hope we can continue to foster this kind of global understanding at The Snake Charmer's Wife through personal accounts of real people.

Heba, habibi, my dear, if you're there -- thank you. From all of us -- thank you. I'll post your writing whenever you want. Just send it to me. You have a fan base here in the U.S.A. :-)

You may know that Heba and I became friends and Luther Seminary, where our whole families intertwined for several glorious years. I'm thrilled that I've been invited to write a chapter about family housing at Luther Seminary. That's my next project and I'll chat more about that later. But what you saw from Heba here on this blog, is just a sampling of the amazing friendships we made with people from all around the world at student housing.

But back to the barf.

That's Aidan's word. Barf. I prefer vomit or even throwing-up. But if I may be so bold as to offer advise to people who are seeking a partner in life, let me offer this wisdom: seek to partner with someone who will clean up the barf.

"Can you go tell Dad?" is how I responded to my sick son. I am still asleep and I so do not want to get out of bed and into the cold night air of upchucked food. (Our old house has a little heating issue, but that's for another dispatch.)

"Sure," my son said. I rolled over, snuggling into the flannel sheets. He told Bob, who was still up (nocturnal DNA), and who tackled that projectile vomitous carpet with the voracity of an athlete. If you are going to choose a spouse, choose someone who will scrub a 4 X 6 section of beige rug, splayed of brown colored stomache bile, like he really cares. Like he cares so much that he doesn't make you feel guilty for not taking this on. For sleeping through it. For not even mentioning it until two days later when you remember to say:

"By the way, thanks for cleaning up the vomit."

He's so intense about it that he doesn't even say you're welcome. Instead he tells you about all the strategies for getting up the stain, for getting out the smell. Like basketball plays. Or football maneuvers. Or baseball spring training. Projectile puke, surrender!

People, let me tell you, that is the kind of domestic partner you want. If it's too late, I'm so sorry, Maybe you can draw some comfort in the fact that there is one lucky woman in Des Moines, Iowa, who never has to clean up her children's body emissions. Be happy for my joy.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, Terri