09/10/2026
This one is for all you hard working parents out there, dealing with whatever life throws(up) at you. From RED volume 28.
The Mighty Burp
by Michael Brothers
It was Valentine's Day. Our first one since moving back to Montague from Ottawa in the fall of 2011. Any potential for romance on this idyllic day was impeded by our children. Emmett, who was not yet Emmett, was gestating within Sara's innards - he was a good two months away from taking his first breath. And Matilda, who was only two, was going through a phase wherein she needed to sleep every night cuddled between her parents in our new king-size bed.
Talk about first world problems.
While a younger me would have resented the lameness of this evening, I thoroughly enjoyed the mellow satisfaction of snuggling into bed with a safe, healthy and growing family. Life was pretty good.
Until about 2 AM.
It was flu season, and our household had been otherwise untouched until this moment. Matilda, who had had more than one hearty serving of spaghetti that evening, sat up abruptly in bed and began projectile vomiting viscous, steamy bile all over the duvet. Every square inch of the bed, including my wife's head, was thoroughly soaked. I imagined Matilda's head spinning around in the dark like a scene from The Exorcist.
I scrambled into a sitting position. The smell hit me hard and nearly knocked me out of bed. I gazed at my toddler's silhoutte in the darkness. Her shoulders were slumped, and she looked, as my mother would have said, like a limp dish rag. This was only a brief lull in the storm. She opened her moth to speak, but paused for a moment - exploring her vocabulary for the proper words to describe what had just happened to her.
"I burped. . . " she moaned, having no context in her short life to understand what power-puking was.
After a quick chuckle, I grabbed Matilda and dragged her to the bathroom where she continued spewing into the toilet. Despite the shock of it all, I couldn't help but wonder where it was all coming from.
Sara was on the scene with towels, and began stripping Matilda down and cleaning her up. She had already stripped the bed sheets. I think we burned them later. Soon, Matilda seemed fresh as a daisy. Sara and I managed to clean ourselves up a little too. And now it was time to attempt a return to the bed. Since I expected more barfing, I ran to the kitchen and fetched a bucket to catch the next wave of hot sick.
When I returned to the room, a startled Matilda looked up at the bucket as though it were some medieval instrument of torture; a means of punishing her for inflicting her torrential rush of puke upon us.
"Please!" she sobbed, "Don't put me in the bucket!"