Puddles of Puke

Father's Day 2024

Here’s an audio recording of the essay, read by me.

I’d meant to get up early with the kids, but uncharacteristically my 14 month-old daughter slept in, meaning she woke at her usual 6am but then fell asleep in my bed after nursing for a bit. When I get up, *Max, my 4 year-old, is tackling Jeff, jumping on him, his usual rough play, telling him he’s a “prisoner in trash city”. Jeff is whimpering and begging for him not to crush his balls. I apologize for “sleeping in” (it’s 7am). It is Father’s Day after all, and I’d promised to let him sleep. I tell him I’m going to take the kids to the Aquarium so he can relax a bit and get some of his MBA homework done before we have to go to his parents’ for dinner.

As the kids have their breakfast, I sort through the mail on the table. There’s a strange letter for me, sent priority from Germany. I open it and somebody has typed a letter asking me for my signature, they don’t say any of the usual fan stuff - I like you on Orange is the New Black, for example. No mention of me as an actor, just a request for my signature. They’ve provided a blank card with my name at the top, and then there’s another strange card typed in German. I suddenly become paranoid, how did they get my address? Is there Anthrax in here? I’d recently seen a YouTube video about the assassination of Kim Jong Un’s brother in an airport - two random women were told they were on a reality TV show and asked to rub some oil on his face. A few hours later he was dead. I know this thought is totally insane, but I thoroughly wash my hands and dump the letter in the trash. 

Meanwhile, my baby daughter Violet is destroying her breakfast. Eggs, toast, a smoothie, strawberries, yogurt, everything is going down the hatch. I marvel at what a great eater she is. Max asks me why his toast has a tiny dot of red on it. Oh, I say, I used the knife I cut the strawberries with to spread your butter. Max is disgusted and I have to try to remove the red. I unload the dishwasher as the kids eat. After about five minutes, Max announces that he’s done. I go to buss his plate, and he’s stacked a Ritz cracker and cereal on top of his toast, two bites taken out of the top.

I dress my kids and gather them into the car and we do the 20 minute drive downtown blasting Unicorn Academy on itunes. All the same songs shuffle through in English, Spanish, French, and German. Somehow my son knows which language is coming next without hearing a word.

As we drive I realize that I still need to call my own Dad, and shit, I didn’t get him a card this year! I’m filled with dread, a familiar old feeling of guilt. I’ve been so distracted with the kids and, well, yeah, the kids. Isn’t that enough of an excuse? Maybe not. I’m an adult, it’s my responsibility to be thoughtful, to buy people presents, to send cards, to be on top of shit. Fuck fuck fuck. I dial his number as we speed down the highway. He doesn’t pick up.

I breathe deeply as Max chatters excitedly about the “scary alligator” we’re going to see. The albino alligator lounges behind clear glass at the front of the exhibit in the very first display. We didn’t make it past him last time. My son hugged my legs, crying, completely frantic. I tried to reassure him that the alligator couldn’t escape, but it was no use. Maybe it was all my fault, I let him watch Aquaman and there’s a scene where a shark in the aquarium tries to break through the glass. Anyway, I had to go back downstairs to the customer service desk and beg for our ninety dollars back.

Finally we arrive at the Aquarium parking lot. I’m relieved we made it downtown through all the road closures and jacked up streets, stuck behind a Hop On Hop Off bus, stopping and starting. But we did it, we’re here, we’ve parked. I open the trunk and pull out our stroller. I have to wrestle it open, repeatedly trying to flip it open using all of my strength, stupid Bob Jogger is impossible to get - fuck! I walk around to Violet’s side and open the door to reveal: she has vomited her entire enormous breakfast all over herself and her carseat.

SHIT! How did this happen? She wasn’t fussing, I was checking on her in the mirror, I didn’t hear this happen, this silent vomit. She is DRENCHED in puke. I pull her out of the carseat and shake off some of the chunks, put her into the stroller. I need something to wipe her with. I check the trunk, the floors, god damn it, I don’t have a single towel or stray piece of clothing. I gather some of her diapers and try to scoop up puddles of vomit from her seat. I grab her diaper wipes and mop her down as much as I can, but her clothes are still soaked, vomit in her hair. 

I examine her and consider: Can I bring her into the museum like this? Hmm. I decide that if I bring a baby covered in vomit into an aquarium, other parents will judge me. I decide to strip her of her clothes. Now just in her diaper, she looks more acceptable. I know what I’ll do, I’ll drape the sweatshirt over her that I brought for myself because I always get cold in the overly air conditioned New Orleans buildings. Ok, great, Violet is good to go. 

I walk around to Max’s side. He’s been fussing, asking me to get him out, it stinks in the car. I tell him I’m sorry, almost there. I open his door…

Oh my god. Where are your shoes???

I don’t know!

Fuck. He has no shoes. Ok, this is a sign from God. This aquarium isn’t happening. I’ve failed as a parent. I think of my friend Giselle who always has an extra set of everything in the back of her car: Change of clothes, extra shoes, towels, a bathing suit, a bucket of toys, a scooter, snacks, water bottles, flotation devices.  I have none of these things. Just one baby covered in vomit, and a four year-old with bare feet.

I’m so sorry, buddy. We need to go home. We can’t go in there with no shoes. And Violet is still covered in puke. 

And so am I. My arms sticky and foul smelling.

Max cries, I feel terrible. I put Violet back into her carseat, she also cries. They’re both crying as I pull out of the parking lot, back into the traffic of downtown.

As we drive home, I wonder if maybe Violet breathed in some of the Anthrax. Is that why she puked? I know this is crazy. I’m pretty sure the reason she puked is because she ate a trough full of breakfast and then I jerked her around in the car.  But my anxiety is on the rise. It’s only made worse when I notice the sky in the distance is a dark purply blue. Great fucking great. This is is one of my biggest anxieties about living in New Orleans. You can be in the bright glorious sun and suddenly the sky goes dark, like night has fallen in an instant, and then there’s thunder cracking all around you, you’re under attack, the rain so thick on your windshield you can’t see, the streets filling with rising water. 

Max notices the darkened sky. 

It looks like a storm, he says. 

Yeah, do you think we can beat it home?

I’ve made this a game for him, but my foot is pressing on the pedal. Max uses his “magic” to push back the clouds to hold in the water, he’s making spells with sound effects. He’s happy again, the Aquarium failure long behind us. I blast us home and we miss the storm by a few minutes. We scramble inside before the rain sloshes down behind us. 

I need help! I shout to Jeff. Violet puked everywhere, it’s all over the carseat. Can you pull it out of the car so I can throw it in the wash.

Jeff sighs, resigned.

It wouldn’t be Father’s Day unless you were cleaning up baby puke, he says.

That night, we go to Jeff’s parents’ house for a special steak and lobster dinner. They’ve invited a few other guests, old friends with adult children. We sit, Violet in a high chair to my left, Max on my right. I inhale my food knowing that I never have long to eat. A few minutes in, Max needs to use the bathroom. I sit on the side of the bathtub while he chatters, stink filling the room. After this ten minute escapade, we return to the table where Violet is fussing and throwing the remainder of her food on the floor. I take her and Max to the tv room and sit on the floor with them while they play. I have a feeling of melancholia, but I don’t want to show it. I play with them, repeat back to Max everything he says, hold them.  I can hear the laughter of the adults in the dining room while they drink wine and enjoy their lobster. I’m not going to bother Jeff. It is Father’s Day after all. 

The next morning I wake early with a sense of unease. After I nurse Violet, I kiss her little cheeks repeatedly, trying to suck the sweetness out of her chubby baby face. Max jumps in bed and I give him a long hug. He tells me he’s feeling sad because he doesn’t want to go to camp today. He wants to stay home with Mommy. It’s ok to be sad, I tell him. I’m sad sometimes too. Yesterday I was a little sad.

Was that because it was Father’s Day and not Mother’s Day? he asks.

Every day is Mother’s Day, I say.

I’m not sure exactly what I mean, but it resonates.

After Jeff takes the kids to camp, I rifle through one of the many clean laundry baskets sitting unfolded in our hallway. I grab a change of clothes for Max and Violet and a couple towels.  I find an old pair of shoes for Max near our door. I grab a handful of diapers, a fresh pack of wipes, and I throw all of this into a tote bag. I walk outside and toss it it in the trunk. The weather is a cool 80 after the storm. It feels fresh.

Later I go to Walgreens and scour the Father’s Day card section. The shelf has been ransacked, mostly empty spaces where cards once were. But I find a card that speaks to me, that feels right for my dad. I sit and write him a thoughtful note, about how much I appreciate his humor and his positive energy, how everything is always the “best ever” for him, and how that is truly the secret of life. To make the present moment the best always. 

I mail this off and breathe easy. You’re ok, Julie, I tell myself. You’re ok. You’re ok. 

*I’ve changed my kids’ names for anonymity.