Four

Stepping into the stairway in my office building today, I was met with a smell that was not exactly that what I thought it was, and yet it conjured up memories of elementary-school days past. Of course, it’s kind of weird that you can remember smells anyway. But among the memories of the smells of paste and clay, there is one smell that any kid who was herded through an American public school will never, ever forget: The smell of that stuff they sprinkled on puke. And it kind of smelled like that today at work, but not really. Just enough to make me remember those few kids who were known as notorious pukers at school. Jennifer, for example, who contended that the flap to her stomach didn’t work right. And Trampas, who I think puked for fun. And then there was Glen, who puked in the first grade during a rousing game of 7-Up.

I wonder what ever became of those rogue pukers, and if they ever got their gag reflexes under control. I can only remember throwing up once under the auspices of the public school system. The place: School bus. Stomach contents: Last night’s spaghetti. Popularity level among other first graders: Zero.

Later on, puking became something of a symbol of accomplishment, at least in college. Usually after binge drinking. And now, it’s merely a sign that my unborn child disapproves of certain foods at certain times. Today it was whole-wheat toast, chai tea and a slice of ham. I’ll be happy when Baby S. can do his/her own puking. Although it is convenient as an adult to not have spontaneous barf attacks; I have only missed the toilet once since the pregnancy began. I suppose babies aren’t such sharp shooters at first.