Our neighbors sent us home last night with a Disney songbook, so we spent family night singing the girls' favorite songs, invariably the sappy love songs and not classics like Zippity Doo Dah which are what Marmot Pa and I would have chosen. But as it turns out, those darn love songs were prescient. Almost immediately after we stopped singing, I was seized by a violent coughing fit and vomited into a metal trashcan. (It would perhaps be Too Much Information to inform readers that I had had a copious amount of broccoli for dinner [sidenote: Tooie is utterly cute when he says "broccoli"].) Anyway, Marmot Dad offered of his own volition to clean out the trashcan for me, and then he did. Bless his little marmoty heart. If I hadn't known it before, I know now: he is my knight in shining armour. This is not, I might add, his only vomit salvation. When E was a child he caught her vomit one night in his bare hands. I teared up. Now you must understand that there are few things that gross me out more than vomit, especially little kid vomit from kids who have not learned to chew properly yet. Although I have to admit that I have gotten a little desensitized to the whole enterprise. I've been known in the last few months to have grabbed Tooie as I hear him gagging and direct his little vomit directly onto my own chest in order to save the bed from a terrible fate. Oops--I hear someone gagging in the back now (I'm not making this up). Such is the fate of us parents of small children with quick vomit triggers.