Mother’s Day is a week behind us now, but I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to point out something special that should qualify my mom for a Congressional Medal of Honor.

My mom raised five kids without killing any of them, which is commendable but not especially unusual in the scope of history, since pioneer women averaged nine children apiece and had to churn butter for all of them. However, my mom’s five children were all afflicted with one unexplainable malady that I’m betting the pioneer moms never dealt with: we were physically unable to throw up in the toilet.

Every incident would play out like this one: After school, I’d develop a tummy ache and ask my mom to take my temperature. She’d feel my head, find that I did have a fever, then set up the Sick Spot on the couch and give me the throw-up bucket – a purple witch trick-or-treat pail from McDonalds (No one knew where the throw-up bucket – pictured above – came from because we’re a Burger King family, plus my mom HATES witches).

That evening, I’d bring the throw-up bucket upstairs with me, and my mom would tuck me in. Before turning off the light, she’d turn around with pleading eyes and make one simple request.

“If you throw up, can you PLEASE get it in the toilet?”

I’d nod my head with all the sincerity in the world, then she’d sigh, nod back and shut off the lights.

At 1 a.m., I’d wake up with a rumbling in my tummy. I’d try to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the longer I lay there, the stronger it grew. I refused to acknowledge that maybe I had to throw up, because if I acknowledged it, that meant it was real, and if it was real, it would happen immediately.

Only when the rumbling got so bad that it had nowhere to escape but my mouth would I admit defeat. I’d sit up, grope for the throw-up bucket and promptly knock it off the bed. At that point, I’d start running to the toilet, but of course it’d already be too late. I’d make it all the way to my brother’s bed before throwing up all over the carpet.

After the final heave, I’d tip-toe downstairs to my mom’s side of the bed (Always Mom’s side, never Dad’s).

Poke poke. “Mom?”

No answer.

Poke poke.

“Please,” my mom would whisper without opening her eyes. “Please tell me you made it to the toilet.”

Silence.

Sighhhhhhhhhh. “Just give me a minute.”

Over the years, as more weak-stomached children were born to my parents, my mom’s life slowly devolved into a parade of little people pointing to throw up in her house.

For 20 straight years, we did not let up. You know how you keep thinking they’re going to run out of ways to make those Fast and Furious movies, and the next thing you know, The Rock is parachuting a car out of a plane? We were kind of like that.

My sister Amanda is one of the world’s soundest sleepers and owns hair that has been compared to a rat’s nest. These two traits seemed unrelated and innocuous, until she woke up once covered in throw up from a sleep puke. Can you imagine opening your eyes to see a puke-haired child standing over your bed, telling you she has bad news?

Can you imagine opening your eyes to see a puke-haired child standing over your bed, telling you she has bad news?

That was probably the worst we could do, right?

It was not. In 2 Sick 2 Nauseous, my other sister, Sarah, woke up in the middle of the night with a rumbling tummy. Sarah slept in a bunk bed over Amanda and, for reasons known only to her, leaned over the bed and called Amanda’s name just as the rumbling reached its peak. Amanda and Sarah’s beds were arranged in an “L” shape, meaning that when Sarah leaned over, her barf hole was positioned directly over Amanda’s face.

“Mmnnf?” Amanda said.

Amanda managed to open her eyes just in time to see a cascade of puke tumbling onto her face.

I think the event that pushed my mom closest to the brink came when I was 10 years old. I was playing hide-and-go-seek outside after dinner (chicken nuggets with a side of mac and cheese). The mac and cheese was different from the brand I was used to, and it was not agreeing with my stomach. I was hiding behind our garage at the time, concentrating on keeping the rumbling contained.

It would not be contained.

Remembering my mom’s pleas to throw up in the toilet, I ran from my hiding spot into the house.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asked as I ran through the kitchen.

As soon as I crossed from the linoleum of the kitchen to the carpet of the living room, I answered by puking my entire dinner.

“WHY DID YOU RUN INSIDE TO THROW UP ON THE CARPET?!”

“I was trying to get to the toilet.”

“THE ENTIRE OUTDOORS IS A TOILET!!!”

“I was just…”

“AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

Last Sunday, I was at my parents’ house. Our conversation in the kitchen got interrupted by their dog Buzzy, who was hoofing it to the door while gagging. My mom let him out to the backyard.

“I didn’t know Buzzy throws up,” I said.

My mom nodded. “Sometimes,” she said. “But he’s really good about going outside when he does.”

“Wow. Smart dog.”

“Yeah.” She glared. “Smart dog.”

LIFE LESSON #69

It’s not actually that hard to make it to the toilet.