Sir Woodrow

I have a friend named Woody who is blessed with a high sense of fashion and a timely word.  On this particular evening, he did not disappoint.  The LW and I were going to a party down the street for a friend who was turning 40.  We like to attend parties together and be social.  With four children, we rarely get to do this kind of thing anymore, so an evening out fills buckets for us that often lie empty.  Woody has three lovely daughters, and was bringing the eldest over to babysit so the LW and I could jet out the door.  We made sure that the kids were ready for bed, well fed, bathed the dirtiest ones, and were about to get ourselves ready.  

Woody rings the doorbell, dapper as ever, especially for a weekday evening.   Together, the three of us stand in the doorway, enjoying the friendly banter, unaware of what awaits, .  Our third child, Josie, walks by the top of the stairs in her Auburn cheerleader's outfit and smiles down on us.  Woody, looks up at her, and says, "Isn't she cute in that outfit."  He was right.  She was cute.  Then, she opened her mouth and threw up.  I am not even sure she blinked.  One minute she is standing there innocently, a cherub of a three year old girl.  The next minute, she is throwing up her body weight.  I was almost ready for her head to start spinning around.  The LW runs upstairs, nimble as ever, scoops her up and plops her in the tub, cheerleading outfit and everything.  She was not there in time to save the hall carpeting, but she did keep it from getting worse.  I, as usual, was standing there holding our fourth child, staring stupidly up the stairs.  I turned to Woody, who says, "Well, welcome to parenthood.  Have a nice evening."  He then grabs his daughter, closes the door behind them and leaves.  He probably covered the two of them in a thick coating of hand san before they got in his car out front.  Needless to say, we did not go out that evening. 

Well done Sir Woodrow.  Well done.