I spent the weekend with a puking eight-year-old. And since it was MY eight-year-old, I was front and center for most of the puking.

Parenting quickly teaches you what you can and cannot handle.

For example, poop diapers never bothered me much, with one very important caveat: the poop had to belong to my child. I’ve had to change a few chunky diapers from children other than my own, and it has never failed to make me gag.

(Am I alone in this? I’ve always wondered. I know it obviously means I shouldn’t ever be employed at a day care, but that’s not news to me. I’m not one to go around thinking all children are adorable little angels. I love some children, and like some others, but I also feel that a fair number of kids are complete assholes. Which only makes sense. All of the adult assholes out there had to start somewhere.)

When it comes to vomit, my stomach is not so iron-clad. I learned this while I was holding the puke bowl for the puking child, and started to retch myself. It wasn’t sympathetic retching either. I was just completely grossed out. And the entire time, my husband was staring at me bug-eyed – from across the room, mind you, well out of the smell zone – and begging me to hold the bowl steady.

It was a rough weekend at Casa Gaskell.

I am not a fan of the burpee. Whenever I see them listed on the Workout of the Day at my boot camp, a thrill of dread passes through me.

What is a burpee, you ask? Lucky you that you don’t know.

But, unlike Errick the Trainer, I don’t smile when I do them. And once they’re over, I look like this:

Is it a bad sign if you look inside your bag, and think, “Wow, a crazy person must live in there”?

This is an inventory of what I’m currently lugging around:

Wallet
Check book
Make-up bag, containing six lipglosses, three lipsticks, a compact and a tampon
Gum
Sunglasses, in case
Kleenex, 2 packs
Assortment of receipts
Advertisement for body wrap that magically shrinks body (George thinks this is hooey, but I’m totally going to go do it. Because it’s magic.)
Hand sanitizer
Hand cream
Hair elastics
Barrette
Sunscreen
Facial cleansing wipes
Rosin bag
Used light bulb (reminder to get a replacement, which I’ve already done)
Belt for vacuum (reminder to get a replacement, which I haven’t yet done)
10 pens
Pencil
Assorted Lego
Two sweat wristbands, both used (ick)
Gym towel, used (ick again)
Water bottle (half-empty . . . or half-full?)
A single coffee bean (no idea)

I think it’s time I streamlined my life. Or, at least, my bag.

Have you read Blonde Mom Blog and Blonde Mom Shops? Go ahead. Go check out her blog and shopping site now. (Or, as Lola from Charlie and Lola would say, “Now now now now now!”) Jamie is adorable, and funny as hell, and likes wine, which gets her the Official Whitney Stamp of Approval.

Jamie and I have partnered up to giveaway a deluxe beach bag, filled with summer goodness — a beach mat, towel, selection of my books, sunscreen and lipbalm, valued at $125.

Pretty cool, huh?

If you’d like a chance to enter, click here. You’ll need to log on through Facebook in order to enter, and will get additional entries for following me on Twitter and liking Blond Mom Blog on Facebook.

If you have to ask yourself, Is this a dress or a nightgown?, the answer is: DON’T BUY IT.

SAM: I don’t like my haircut.

ME: Yeah, um, the next time your father offers to cut it for you, tell him I already made an appointment for you with my stylist.

SAM: Why?

ME: Just trust me on this one.

SAM: OK.

ME: But don’t tell Dad I told you to say that. That’s between you and me.

SAM: Got it.

Five minutes later . . .

GEORGE: Did you tell Sam that the next time I tried to cut his hair, that he should tell me that you made an appointment for him with your stylist?

ME: Wow. Worst kept secret ever.

GEORGE: His hair doesn’t look that bad.

ME: He looks like a convict. All he needs are some tats and a gang affiliation.

GEORGE: Oh, well. It will grow out.

ME: And we’ll just have to avoid photographing him until it does.

Speaking of going off-diet . . .

Chick-Fil-A Chicken Sandwich + Chocolate Shake = Best Hangover Cure Ever

Don’t judge me. I was celebrating the birth of our nation.

Lesson learned today:

When attempting to follow the whole depressing low-carb/paleo diet from hell, it’s counterproductive to make homemade corn bread.

But hot damn, was it good.

Also, it led to the following conversation:

ME: Sam, do you want to try some cornbread?

SAM: No.

ME: Why not? It’s delicious.

SAM: I hate corn bread.

ME: No, you don’t. You love it.

SAM: I don’t.

ME: Yes, you do. Here, try some.

At this point, I temptingly hold out a slice of cornbread, still warm from the oven, slathered with butter. Sam reacts as though I am about to start waterboarding him.

SAM: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

ME: Good grief, stop caterwauling. Do you know the outside of a corn dog? The yummy breaded part?

SAM: [suspiciously] Yes?

ME: THAT’S CORN BREAD.

SAM: Oh. Let me try. Yum! Can I have some more?

ME: No.

My friend J., who is very ladylike, once told me that it’s not good manners to eat in the car.

I think of this every time I do eat in the car, always hoping that J. won’t pull up next to me at a traffic light just as I’m stuffing French fries in my mouth, while great blobs of ketchup drip down on my shirt.

French fries aside, I mostly pick portable snacks to dine on while driving. Bananas, sports bars, pretty much anything I can eat one-handed. (I always like to keep one hand free for flipping off other drivers as needed, another habit I suspect J. wouldn’t approve of.)

But today, when I stopped at a light, I looked over at the car next to me, and watched as the driver began to eat cereal. With milk. And a spoon.

At first, this just seemed silly to me. Hasn’t she ever heard of granola bars? But then, I began to gain appreciation for the thought that went into her breakfast-on-the-go. Rather than opting for a bowl, she’d poured her cereal and milk into a square Tupperware container, which would be less likely to spill. And it didn’t look as though she were sloshing milk down the front of her blouse.

I began to wonder how far she would take this. Did she stop at cereal, or did she eat other meals requiring utensils behind the wheel too? She could probably manage soup with the same square Tupperware system. But what about a New York strip steak that would require cutting? Or barbecued ribs? Or corn on the cob? Maybe all this time, I’d been underachieving with my bananas.

I wanted to roll down my window and ask her, but by that time, I think I’d freaked her out by staring at her for too long. Once the light turned green, she peeled off, clearly eager to put space between us. Or maybe she just wanted to get to the next red light, so she could get back to her breakfast.