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The same child who barfed on the gym floor of the YMCA at 1:15 p.m., in the van on the way home and twice more before 11 p.m.  en route to grandma’s house is also the child who perked up this morning at 6:51 and announced in my left ear that he was starving.   “Sta…R…ving.”

By which time he skittered out of our room and returned two exhales later with an unopened carton of milk and a ziploc bag with pickles.

His breath said he’d already had a pickle.  And the milk…well, the milk just needed to be anywhere but on my chest.  Which was when I got up…and followed the child whapping his pickle bag on the wall, to the kitchen. 

That he would settle on cereal was just as well.  We didn’t have ice cream.  And we try to save ketchup for later.  Much later.

As the only other person awake, I was the sole witness to my son’s mini buffet, which went like this:  bite of pickle;  bite of cereal.  And then a repeat of the pickle-cereal cycle until two pickles were nubs and the cereal just a bunch of floaties.

Only all this means nothing.  Except to say that the same child who just hugged me smelling like chips has apparently made peace with his stomach.


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