I sat on the floor, cross-legged (I donít think we can call that "Indian style" anymore) with my youngest on my lap. We were reading a book about cats. It was cute. It was fun. My cat walked over to us. He purred. He rubbed his big orange face up against the book. My kid babbled excitedly.
More cute. More fun. My purring cat turned to face me and suddenly vomited.
No longer cute nor fun. The book took the brunt of it, and thankfully shielded my kid from the stream of foul matter. But I got hit in the hand, arm and leg. So I dropped the book, grabbed the cat and pointed him away from us, like a cat-puke-gun. But then I was stuck.I was cross-legged with a kid on my lap. I had a squirming cat in my outstretched hands and a kid sitting on my legs.
I couldnít stand up without dumping him on to the floor (and into the cat puke). I couldnít let go of the cat, who was now pulling a Linda Blair, spraying an arc of burgundy-colored chum onto the carpet around us. Meanwhile, my kid was desperately trying to get out of my lap, so I had to hold him with my elbows... it was like yoga for the criminally insane. Jesus! It's amazing how quickly things can turn from sweet to surreal.