’Twas the Night Before Scotland

’Twas the night before Scotland, when all through the suite,
Some creatures were stirring, in the hall—stumbling feet;
The suitcases packed, sat by the door with care,
In hopes that we’d soon be travelling by air.

The toddler was nestled all snug in her bed,
While visions of Nessie danced in her head;
Mamma in her undies, and RaRa in jocks,
Had many alarms set for wee 2 o’clock.

Then out of the cot there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the bathroom I flew like a flash,
Grabbed every towel I could find to soak up the splash.

In dull bathroom light glow, I saw and felt queasy,
The lustre of grapes… and something quite cheesy.
When, what to my fearful eyes should appear;
A toddler whose hands the vomit did smear.

All over her face, chunks in her lashes,
Bum fireworks crackling—our travel hopes in ashes.
More sudden than tantrums, the spew came in waves.
The stench, ever-present, rose from the graves.

We pleaded with Google: “Is this viral or cursed?”
Could she rally by morning? Or was this the worst?
At 12:34, we abandoned the flight,
The bags still packed, but not flying that night.

Days before, I admitted to dreading the plane,
But projectile surprise wasn’t part of the game.
Not in my wildest fears did I imagine,
That hell hath no fury like toddler digestion.

See you in 48 hours, Scotland.