I sat on the floor, cross-legged (I don’t think we can call that "Indian style"
anymore) with my youngest on my lap. We were reading a book about 
cats. It was cute. It was fun.

My cat walked over to us. He purred. He rubbed his big orange face 
up against the book. My kid babbled excitedly. "Ka! Ka!" More cute. 
More fun.

My purring cat turned to face me and suddenly vomited. No longer cute 
nor fun.

The book took the brunt of it, and thankfully shielded my kid from the 
stream of foul matter. But I got hit in the hand, arm and leg. So I 
dropped the book, grabbed the cat and pointed him away from us, 
like a cat-puke-gun. But then I was stuck.

I was cross-legged with a kid on my lap. I had a squirming cat in my 
outstretched hands and a kid sitting on my legs. I couldn’t stand up 
without dumping him on to the floor (and into the cat puke). I couldn’t 
let go of the cat, who was now pulling a Linda Blair, spraying an arc 
of burgundy-colored chum onto the carpet around us.

Meanwhile, my kid was desperately trying to get out of my lap, so I 
had to hold him with my elbows…it was like yoga for the criminally insane. Jesus! 

It's amazing how quickly things can turn from sweet to surreal.

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