Homeworkus Interuptus and Other Tales of Regurgitation

“But Mooooooo-oom, I want to do my homework,” my son whined.

Woog was clearly losing it.

After having dawdled over dinner, television and his bath, he showed up for our homework date at a time when some other person would have left the rendezvous point in frustration and vowed never to go out with him again.

But as his date was his mother, clearly she had no choice in the matter.

It started out innocuously enough with some drills writing Chinese number characters while he chanted “eee...er...san...sz..ooo...lio...” to the tune of his pencil scratching on the page. By the time we got to identifying the different rooms of a house in Filipino, he was picking chunks off his eraser with a fingernail, and I had to remind him to pay attention.

I finally called it a night when he rubbed off his umpteenth mistake from the “write the members of the family” crossword puzzle. The printed squares of his workbook were looking decidedly faint, and he was peering at me irritably, expecting me to provide him with the answers. The clock had struck the hour of nine. “Bedtime, Woog.”

“But Moooooo-ooom....!”

Upstairs, Eli was coughing up the contents of his milk bottle. His throat had a tickle, and he was scratching it vigorously with violent tremors of his glottis (hack! hack! haaaa-aaack!), in the process, upchucking everything else from deep down under. Twice now that evening.

I rushed upstairs, Woog still whining at my heels.

The sour stench hit us before we even took one step inside the room. One putrid puddle lay glistening at the foot of the electric fan, the other was messily sprawled too close to Eli's bed. Atch was cursing as he frantically scrubbed down two pillows with wet wipes. Meanwhile, Eli's rejected milky diet was slowly seeping down into the floorboards.

The owner of said lactose expulsion was sitting naked on our bed, newly divested of his soiled 'jamies. “Deeenk,” he said, “deeeenk....miiik.”

“Drink milk! Drink milk!” Atch glared in the direction of the baby, “I told you not to finish that second bottle! Now look what happened?!”

Eli burst into tears.

“Mooooooo-ooom! I want to do my homework!”

This was not exactly the best night in our lives. We were tired, cranky and vomitty. We were all in need of a rest. I sent Woog downstairs, took the wailing baby in my arms, gave him a drink of water and wiped the rest of the sour dampness from him.

Atch cleaned the floor with a scowl on his face. There was no help for it. The room was going to stink of gastric juices and curdled baby formula for the rest of the night.

“Deeeenk miiiik.” Eli ventured once more.

Downstairs, I told Woog in as calm a voice that I could muster that he needed to go to bed.

“Whyyyyyyyy?” (which came out sounding like waaaaaah-iiiiiii)

“Why?” I asked him back, taking deep breaths and buying myself some time.

Shamefaced, he acknowledged his tardiness and the lateness of the hour, but followed it up with, “so I won't do homework again. Ever.”

“Ok then, you might as well stop going to school tomorrow, too.”

“Whyyyyyyyy?” he started over in a grating wail, and I found myself in danger of not only losing my patience, but regressing to my son's level as well.

“I'm mad.” Woog gritted out, knuckling his eyes and trying to still his quivering mouth.

“Which is why you have to go to bed before both of us really lose our tempers. Now, please.”

He ran upstairs, pausing to give me a tearfully resentful glance before slamming his door behind him. Faintly, I heard the bolt turning in its lock.

Nicely handled. What a swell mommy you are.

Atch came down, looking all of his forty years. Poor Atch. Haggard from a two-hour drive out of town, just gulped down his dinner, only to come face to face with a toddler playing the title role from The Exorcist. And with a wife straight out the pages of Mommy Dearest.

Some days I wonder if we'll ever get this right.