‘Twas Two Nights After Christmas


Dedicated to “Typhoid Emma” as she henceforth will be called
Edit: Harvey thinks this entry may scare away those with a faint constitution. Thus, proceed at your own risk.

‘Twas two nights after Christmas, when all through the abode,
We all soon were stirring, racing to the commode.
The cookies were tossed on the staircase with flair,
In hopes that somebody soon would clean there.
My parents were nestled all snug in their bed,
While visions of chef’s salad danced in their heads.
And Cooper in his collar, and I in my clothes,
Had just settled our brains for a short winter’s doze.
When down from my bowels there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to try not to splatter.
Away to the bathroom I flew like a flash,
But stopped on the staircase, and threw up (with a splash).
And yet I charged on and raced to the head,
Waking my mother, asleep in her bed.
Then what from my large intestines should expel,
But a new round of chunks with their own unique smell.
With a little old back pain, so achy and new,
I knew in a moment it must be the flu.
More rapid than eagles, his courses they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now peppers! Now cheddar!
Now, avocados!
On, lettuce! On, turkey!
On, something that glows?
To the top of the tub!
To the edge of the wall!
Now hurl away! Hurl away!
Hurl away all!

As dry heaves that before the eaten meal piles
When they meet with an obstacle, just regurgitate bile,
So into the toilet the courses they spewed,
With the tank full of acid and digested food.
And then, in an hour, I heard from my room
The ralphing and retching of mother’s exhume.
As I covered my ears and was turning around,
I thought of the girl who was causing this sound.
She was dressed all in pink, from her head to her toes,
And her blanket was matching, except it had holes.
On Christmas Eve it was her turn it to hurl,
But yet she was still our dear baby girl.
Her eyes–how they twinkled! Her dimples, how merry!
Her cheeks were like roses, her nose like a cherry!
Her cute little smile as she gave you a hug,
You’d never know you were getting the bug.
The shreds of a blankie held tight in her grasp,
And the scourge it encircled our heads like an asp
She had a sweet face but she ached all our bellies.
We moaned and we groaned, as we vomitted jellies.
A pang in my gut and a twinge on my tongue
Soon gave me to know the flu wasn’t done.
One phone call then two, a right jolly old plague,
My mother’s whole family, they weren’t being vague.
Mike Johnson cacked first, Mary barfed in the hall,
And Stanley seemed healthy, but soon joined us all.
Then laying my finger aside of the john,
And giving a flush, I sent the puke gone.
It sprang down the pipe, on its way to the sewer,
(Though it soon was replaced by yack that was newer.)
But I heard it exclaim, ‘ere it flowed out of sight,
“Happy New Year’s to all, and to all a good night!”


5 responses

  1. Erin,
    I must say, you out did yourself this time. That was quite funny. I even understood everything. I’m sure the kids won’t be offended. Just look at how much fun we’ve had hashing over this event. It will be remembered for years. Hope you are feeling better.

  2. Yes, Sheeva, she did get sick. And a sick Erin is no fun to watch, care for or clean up after. While her recounting indicates a certain nobility of effort, let’s note a bit of her path to the seemingly effortless repainting of staircase walls, carpets and a completely new approach to bathroom wallcovering outside the ken of Martha Stewart.
    First, there’s the large patio door to the outdoors, it was after all a rather balmy Minnesota winter night. And the return of vegetable matter to vegetable matter seems to be at best composting and at worst simply something the crows and field mice will take care of; almost like leaving cookies for Santa.
    Secondly, the large kitchen sink replete with disposal for rapid removal and cleanup; lest we forget the sprayer useful for removal of sprayage.
    Finally, I’d like to point out that the “stop” on the stairs, while technically accurate, is slightly understated. For all who know Erin, stairs have a peculiar affect on the girl; never more so than when she’s under some stress such as bile rising or chores to be done. She doesn’t so much climb the stairs as she falls up them. Now it is generally true that she can generally navigate stairs adequately, but only in a calm state and never at speeds past her normal gait.
    So while the poem heroically suggests that she “charged” on much as the brave lads in the Light Brigade, it is more correct to say that she tripped on the second step and on contact with the stairs exploded much as a water balloon does when hitting the side of a building.
    Further, the moans and pitiful cries for Mommy hardly suggested one “in control” of the situation or one willing to take one for the Gipper, as it were.
    Then as her mother lovingly carried her to the final outpost of her misery, she showed her undying devotion and gratitude by spewing in every direction but one relative to the commode itself.
    For myself, I could barely maintain the facade of sleep as the matriarch desperately attempted to clean the mess and calm the child.