When Bob got home from work, we took the girls to the soccer field to play. I managed to kick the ball — hard — directly into Dori’s little toddler tummy. It couldn’t have been more of a direct hit had I tried. The poor baby turned 18 months old today and this is how I honor her. We were all stunned. But she got me back.
I rushed to pick Dori up to comfort her. I heard a gurgle, then she repaid me by puking the entire contents of her stomach all down my neck and back.
After I was sure she was OK, I started peeling off my shirt. I mean it was stinky stuff. I took it off, saying out loud, “It will just look like I’m wearing a sports bra.” Then I suddenly realized that flabby, plus-sized women don’t wear sports bras in public — especially a polka dot one paired with a striped broomstick skirt. It hit me that the traffic on the highway could see me, so I ran to the car to hide. I found my Columbia windbreaker and put that on. My skirt had a splash of puke on it, too, so I took that off and wrapped a bedsheet around my waist. It was 80+ degrees at that point.
After about half an hour, Dori regained the color in her cheeks. She’ll probably flinch everytime she sees me go near a ball now.