Lou Throws Up in 4th Grade

“Mom, do you feel like you have to throw up?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror at Lou seated in the backseat. It was the Tuesday before Christmas, and we had just landed a pretty prime parking spot at the top of the hill on 52nd street, which meant that at 3:30 dismissal, we could peel out and arrive home pretty quickly, thus commencing Christmas Break 2023. 

But first, we had to endure Sam’s class Christmas party, which I had volunteered to coordinate. A rookie mistake, and I’m by no means a rookie.

“Uh, no. Lou, do you feel like you have to throw up?”

“Nope,” he replied back to me, confident as always, but I felt like he was lying. 

It was the third such comment he’d made in the last three hours, which made me very, very nervous. Especially since I’d just texted another mom friend, whose 10 year-old was home sick at that very moment, “At this point, I feel like we’re immune to just about everything. There can’t possibly be a virus out there that we haven’t had!”

What a dumb, stupid text that was. Just begging for ebola. Right before Christmas, too.

We have rarely encountered a virus that hits each of us the same way, with identical symptoms. But it usually gets five out of six us, maybe four if we’re lucky, but the uncertainty, not knowing who will go down next is almost unbearable. 

Not a great way to start out the holiday. Last Christmas, our Florida trip was canceled at the last minute thanks to the sudden-not-so-sudden implosion of Southwest Airlines. This year, traveling on a plane with a stomach bug would be miserable. Possible, yes. But miserable.

And there’s the issue of my dad, fresh off his fourth round of chemo. His health is otherwise pretty great, but chemo PLUS a virus might knock him out harder than it would the rest of us.

If we erred on the side of caution and canceled our trip altogether for the second year in a row, we’d be homebound for two solid weeks. In the winter. With only an occasional basketball practice here and there to distract us from perpetual togetherness.

So, yes, the prospect of a looming stomach bug was almost as nauseating as the bug itself. 

I paused a moment before getting out of the car, contemplating whether I should run him home to sit with Tighe for the afternoon. An hour or so of Paw Patrol wouldn’t hurt him.

“Lou. Seriously, do you feel okay?”

“Yeah, let’s go!”

Eh, what the heck.

And then it was like the universe gave me one last chance.

Because of course, as soon as we entered the school grounds, Lou’s behavior just tanked. He really might be the most popular kid at that school and he doesn’t even go there yet.

Every time we stroll down that sidewalk in front of the school, kids scream his name from behind the metal bars that enclose the playground. Once we enter the building, they trickle out of classrooms, sneaking away from their lessons to give him a hug or a high five, or in far too many cases, to get flipped off by him.

Yeah, you read that right.

It’s like Beatlemania.

I don’t fully understand the appeal, but I understand that each callout of “Lou!” makes his ego climb just a tad higher, until suddenly he’s invincible, strutting through the hallway like he owns the place. And then it’s on me to bring him down to earth, to instill a little discipline and keep the place in order. Otherwise he starts hitting and wrestling and using profanity and the whole school starts to unravel. 

This is why I’ve started to limit my volunteer days to the days when he’s safely tucked away in preschool.

And this day was no exception to the mania. In fact, it was probably worse than usual because it was the last day before break. Meaning kids were already high on sugar, blind with euphoric anticipation of Santa, and just plain amped to have two weeks off of school. No actual teaching can possibly be accomplished on those days. 

Before I knew it, the other moms and I were busy unpacking all the goodies and games we had brought for the kids. Lou was peacocking around the classroom, replying to the 9 and 10 year-olds with nonsensical poop and fart jokes and lots of giggling.

And then all of the sudden, they dropped to whispers. 

“Did he?”

“No, he didn’t!”

“Yes, he did!”

My back was turned, but I was able to deduce that he’d flipped off one of the boys. Later, at dinner, when Sam recalled his version of events, he told us which boy it was, and Nate whispered, “Good for you, Lou!”

Still, even if it was the class bully—I used that term very loosely as I don’t believe in such labels—I can’t let Lou get away with that. Not in front of all those angelic Catholic school girls and boys. I also use that term loosely.

“LOU!” I breathed at him fiercely. When I was pregnant with Nate, a friend gave me a little plaque that reads: “Don’t yell at your kids. Lean in and whisper, it’s much scarier.” That was the tone I was using with Lou at that moment.

“If you do not get it together,” I hissed, “I will call Tighe this very moment and he will come pick you up and you will sit alone in your bedroom. No party. No hot chocolate. No other miscellaneous treats.”

“Okay, okay, OKAY!” And he knew I was serious. 

Sam’s teacher runs a tight ship, she’s pretty incredible actually, and I didn’t want to be the reason she quits her job in the middle of the school year. 

And that was it. That was my last chance from the universe to get rid of Lou and keep him from infecting the rest of the school with the stomach bug that he’s likely contracted from some of those very same students to begin with.

We resumed Festive Mode. The hot chocolate and popcorn was a hit. The games were intensely competitive. And everyone was in a pretty good mood. 

At some point, though, and I’m unclear on when, Lou had snuck away to visit one of the third grade classrooms and they had issued him a chocolate covered gingerbread cookie as a parting gift. Probably like, “take this cookie and go away.”

He returned to Sam’s classroom, showed everyone his sugary bounty and plopped down to recline on one of the floor cushions munching away on the cookie, gingerbread crumbs spraying from his mouth like a woodchipper. 

I was barely paying attention to him as I darted back and forth, handing out prizes and cleaning up spills. All was merry.

Suddenly I spied his little red Christmas sweatered body dashing across the room. In fact, he was trailing my path as though he was trying to reach me. He was unmistakably clutching his mouth with his palm, as if he was trying to keep the contents inside. Without registering a complete thought, I pivoted back to try to reach him in time.

But it was too late. I watched as vomit spewed from his mouth, all across the white tile floors of the 4th grade classroom. 

As soon as he had finished, he began screaming and crying, but it was drowned out by the chorus of 4th graders: 

“Ewww!” 

“Lou threw up!” 

“Gross!” 

“Look, I can see the cookie!”

“I lost my appetite!”  

“Can I have more hot chocolate?”

We were very fortunate that his projectile vomit landed on the floor and only on the floor. His teacher, a veteran professional educator, is well-stocked with clorox wipes, paper towels, and tissues. I used all three to mop up the mess while Lou clutched my sleeve and sobbed. 

Thank God it was the end of the school day, the end of the party. We were back home within the half hour, quarantined safely and securely in our living room.

But. 

Was it food poisoning?

Did he choke on the gingerbread cookie that he was eating while laying on his back?

Or was it the heinous stomach bug that had been circulating for months and we’d managed to avoid?

Well, I guess only time will tell for sure. But I can tell you that he ate a hearty dinner a few hours later, wrestled with Sam most of the afternoon, and asked for hot chocolate with marshmallows just before bedtime.

Thoughts and prayers, please.