Perceptions of a Child Fascinated by Food

It is one of my earliest memories: I vomited hotdogs, all by myself.

We moved from the scene of this event that marked the beginning of my interest in food and related subjects, such as disgestion and food commentary when I was four, so I know I was no older than that, maybe even three. I have perhaps five memories total of my toddlerhood, so this is a significant memory.

My younger brother and I ate beanie weenies for dinner. That's how my mother stretched the food budget, by serving us cheap 'fun' food and saving the meat for the grown ups. I was much older than four before I learned that hot dogs were the offical name for what Dad called, 'tube steaks'. It is important to teach your children the semi-communication of euphemisms.

We ate the beanie weenies. I don't remember what happened after that. It was still light out. I was not an 'outside kid' so it isn't like I was out climbing trees or spinning in the back yard until I was dizzy. For some reason I got nauseous. I wasn't a sickly kid in that respect, except for asthma, a convenient disability for a lazy kid like me who didn't want to run laps in school anyway. "Sorry, but I have a note in my file. Asthma. If you make me run to that fence, have a paramedic on standby." Not really, I always made a half-hearted attempt, then started wheezing convincingly about halfway to the fence. I got sympathy because at least I tried. Eventually, the PE teacher stopped letting me 'try'. Who knows why I was sick that day.

My mother was a social woman trapped at home in domestic drudgery. She never liked being a housewife, but she had to quit her government job to take out her retirement to pay the hospital bill when I was born. She was standing at the fence talking to Dot, our next door neighbor. I always think of Dot wearing a polka dot dress, although I don't know if she really had one or not. She had black hair like a stereotypical Gypsy and took care of her elderly mother who had wild gray hair. They were standing where a fence would be between the properties if the fence extended to the front yard, just standing there chatting. I proudly announced, "I just threw up all by myself!"

It wasn't like I wanted to be alone at such a time, but I knew it was coming up and Mom didn't anwer when I called for her. Imagine my surprise when the toilet bowl filled with tan bean mush and perfect little circles of hot dogs. I hadn't chewed them at all, just swallowed them right down. I didn't realize that at the time. I don't know what I expected my stomach to do with the beans and hot dogs, but I didn't expect to see them perfectly resurrected. After a thorough visual inspection, I wiped my face with a washcloth, because that's Mom did, and flushed, returning the vomity washcloth to the rack.

Well, I was quite proud of myself. Only four years old, maybe only three, and already worldly wise in the ways of self-care. I could see Mom and Dot from the bathroom window. I knew Mom would experience the full glow of parental pride when I announced my success story. Except...she was humiliated. Was it because throwing up was bad? Was she embarassed because she wasn't there to wipe my face? What exactly had I done wrong?

In search of a more appreciative audience, I told my brother. He remained unmoved. He was only three at most anyway. Thus at four years old, maybe even three, I learned not all of our accomplishments will be lauded by others. It is an important lesson if you write.

The event also gave me a great curiosity about where the food goes and how it get back to the mouth once it goes down. It should disappear forever like the last ball in a putt putt course which just goes down the hole, never to be seen again. This made me reconsider my image of our chest cavity as a rack of dry white rib bones, hanging in darkness like empty coat hangers in a closet. I thought when food was swallowed, it got stuck on the ribs, flapping like streamers on tree limbs, until it disintergrated. How did it get off the ribs and back up my throat and with such force? And how did little circles of hot dogs balance on the tips of rib bones? Obviously, my theory was flawed but none of my Golden Books were of help,

Oh, the glorious day finally came when I learned the disgestive process is a closed system with a point of entry and exit, with filters and pumps and check valves along the way. What a marvelous system, though prone to frequent failure. At four or three, I could not have imagined the ways in which it can fail, but my middle aged self knows, oh yes, she knows. It failed fatally for several people I have loved. And what insight will my elderly self learn in the next few decades about digestion, about the ramifications of binge eating and reckless food choices? I'll post an update in thirty years.

Unforunately, I have had cause to throw up plenty of times in the interrim, mostly due to migraines, but alcohol played a role as well, and the flu. I have even been forced to hose it off the passenger door of a boyfriend's car on Christmas morning. But I can still see in my mind the little hot dog circles on the tips of my ribs, waiting to be blown into the toilet.