From behind the closed door of the master bathroom I hear a large grown man throwing up in our bathtub. It sounds like buckets of water are being dumped into it, violently, interrupted only by groans. I knock on the door and he moans, “Go away…oh God….please go away.” I, too, hate it when people attempt to tend to me while I’m vomiting and I understand. I take a peak at my husband, to make sure he’s not in any 911-ish danger (and I see him: ass planted on the toilet, torso leaning over the bathtub, hating life and everything that’s ever been called, or even looked like, food) and I leave him be.
Ten minutes go by, the bathroom door opens and my husband appears clutching our daughter’s three inch tall Elmo bathtub toy. He hoists mini-Elmo in the air, and in a small, high voice he says, “Elmo can never unsee that. Elmo wants to die now.”