S.O.B.

It’s a bird. It’s a plane.

It’s a cat with a hairball riding a bicycle?

Why no, it’s Lucas’s mom.

Vomitting…which, by the way, is said outu in Chinese.

I learned that word Monday in my text book. My instructor immediately told me that the word was not useful. I beg to differ. After living in Asia for nearly three months now, the word vomit has been utilized and demonstrated more than one could ever imagine.

I am writing this blog in defense of myself. Brad was recently in the US and told his sister the following story. She laughed and then said, “Kimberly won’t write about THAT on her blog!” Untrue! I can poke fun at myself. It’s similar to poking out your eye.

The day: Saturday the 16^th of October 2010

The place: the International School of Beijing’s 30^th Anniversary picnic

The time: 3 p.m., approximately 1 hour after eating the free boxed lunch provided by the school

The culprit: Japanese noodles-- I thought they tasted fishy! (As in both fish-flavored and suspicious.)

The series of unfortunate events:

• The sun is shining.
• We cycle to the school. A family outing!
• We have lunch.
• Lucas plays in the “bouncy” house with friends until he wants desert.
• We then stand in line, waiting for cotton candy.
• My mouth fills with saliva.
• We continue to stand in line.
• I break out in a cold sweat and swallow repeatedly.
• We still stand in line.
• I scout out the playground, looking for “discreet” bushes. None.
• My stomach is heaving.
• We still stand in line.
• I am shivering. Shaking. Pale. Swallowing and swallowing.
• Mouth is watering, watering. A freakin’ fire-hose of spit.
• I ask to leave. Lucas balks. He really wants cotton candy.
• I warn him that for every minute we spend in line, he must practice piano that much longer. He agrees.
• Damn.
• My stomach rolls. I try some Lamaze breathing. It worked during childbirth. Not working so well here.
• This is not good. I quietly (yet desperately) ask Lucas where the bathroom is.
• I cannot bear to vomit in public. If I do so, I know Lucas will be known as the child whose mother vomited at the picnic for all eternity. I cannot scar him like that. This transition has been hard enough.

By the way, ISB is enormous—the size of a small city’s hospital. Brad remains in line, and Lucas and I charge to the “nearest” restroom that he can locate. It is up three flights of stairs and two long corridors. We are booking! I would have been panting, but I was afraid of pulling a Linda Blair if I opened my mouth.

This place is an institution! With each step, I swallow. Keep down the vomit, I demand of myself. Keep down the vomit. Lucas WILL NOT be known as the Boy of the Vomitter.

Finally we arrive at the restroom. Thank the god. Thank the porcelain goddess. Lucas waits in the hallway. I rush in. And it’s empty.

Relief!

My shame will not be public.

But, no, the restroom is not empty. I see little Chinese shoes in one of the stalls. Swinging in the air as the owner sits. Not a child though: I see high-heels.

I dash into the handicapped stall. I am quivering. My mouth is a fountain of saliva. I am so cold, so cold. I kneel.

The restroom is completely silent.

Dead silent.

I can hear the air whooshing as the shoes swing.

What could the owner be doing?

I swallow compulsively. Can I bring myself to vomit in the presence of a stranger?

Why is the room so quiet?

I begin to spit gallons of saliva into the bowl.

I know that if I actually throw up, I will feel a million times better. I actually want to throw up and purge my system of the poison.

But no. It is so still. Eerie.

Just those itsy-bitsy shoes swinging in the adjacent stall. What the hell? Is the person alive? This is like a CSI episode.

Silence.

Lucas clatters into the room, loud like only a 7-year-old American boy can be. “MOM?! ARE YOU OKAY?!? DID YOU BARF?!?”

Weakly, yet lady-like, I answer, “Just give me moment, darling.”

He clomps out. I delicately spit again. The room remains as dead as a morgue.

Just those serial-killer shoes, swooshing.

Nope, I cannot do it. I just can’t. Seems like I missed the barf-boat.

We return to the cotton-cany line and wait another 15 minutes. I am not feeling so well. (That’s an understatement by the way.) Lucas now has nearly 40 minuets of extra piano practice.

Finally, it is our turn.

Unbelievable! The cotton candy lady has run out of “sticks.” There is no way to gather the spun sugar. Brad psychically senses the negative energy emanating from my food-poisoned system. He sprints to the nearest snack booth and snatches a pair of chopsticks. (lucky we are in Asia!) He gallops back to the cotton candy machine and presents them with a flourish. Ta da! He has diverted the disaster.

But I’m done. We must leave. We power-walk back to the bikes. Again, my mouth is watering in a bad way.

I clip on my helmet. The slight pressure against my chin is not helpful. I bend over to enter the bike lock combo. That’s really bad. That extra bit of exertion has caused the bile to rise.

NO! NO! NO!

Lucas will not be known as an S.O.B: Son of a Barfer!

I must get off school grounds. Immediately! I throw my leg over the saddle. To hell with modesty! I peddle through the crowds of laughing, lingering, mingling expats.

My legs circle in an even, rapid cadence. Get away. Get way. Get away.

The guards at the gate call out “Ni Hao!”

I swallow.

My body begins to undulate like a cat with a hair ball.

My head begins to bob like a pecking pigeon.

Get away. Get away. Get away.

I never look back. This is a good thing. Unbeknownst to me, Lucas has attempted to ride up a curb on his bike and wiped out. He is lying in the road, stunned by the impact.

Another guard calls out another Ni Hao. (Guards are everywhere in China.)

I swallow again and turn the corner. It’s the wide open road. I drop the metal to the pedal. I AM LANCE ARMSTRONG!

And I vomit in the privacy of my own home.