….having someone hold your hair while you barf.  It’s an odd thing of parenting.  Any residual squeamishness you might have had as a child, or even as a 20-something, goes right out the window when it comes to your kids.  Spitup when they’re babies?  After getting doused the first time or two, it’s no big deal.  Poop under your fingernails?  Eh, unplesant, but not the insta-vomit response it might have gotten when I was an angsty teen.  Vomit?  Ah yes.  My daughter has the 12 hour vomitorama today.  It’s amazing the bright orange color carrots get once they’ve had a quick bath in HCL, isn’t it?  I’ve been barfed on (not just near, but on) about three times since midnight.  Do I care?  Nah, not really.  It smells, sure, but this is my little girl.  She can sit on my lap and barf for an hour, as long as she feels better doing it.  As a parent, even if I were inclined to, it would be really bad form for me to jump up and down and go *ick* *ick* *ick*.  That’s the kind of thing your kids remember *forever*, and not in a good way.