The other day I was interrupted in Oscar's schooling by a retching noise coming from the bathroom. "Excuse me," I said to Hannah, who was working with Ben on the other side of the table, and leaned back in my chair until I could see down the hall. Milo was standing feet wide apart, bent at the waist, fists on his hips, throwing up on the floor. "Stay there! Lean over the toilet!" I called. "I'll be there in a minute." I went the long way round, to grab paper towels and cleaner on my way, and headed for the bathroom, wrinkling my nose against the telltale sour smell as I started to ask Milo if he was okay.
Except there wasn't a sour smell. Instead, the bathroom was downright... fragrant. Redolent of homemade apple pie, perhaps. And ... I'm sorry if this is too much information... the sad little puddle on the floor was suspiciously brown and powdery.
I turned to Milo. "Did you just eat a whole lot of cinnamon?"
"No, no, no," he told me, wide-eyed, as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a brown smear.
I thought for a minute and changed my frown to a sympathetic expression. "Milo, did you eat only one spoon of cinnamon?"
He grinned and nodded vigorously. "Only one spoon."
I scolded him gently, cleaned it up, gave him some Pepto-Bismol, cleaned it up again a few minutes later, and he skipped off to play. Later I found a tablespoon in the open jar of cinnamon. It must've really been irritating. I can't think how he choked it down in the first place.
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