My skills have been compromised.

There are certain basic skills which, once mastered, a girl likes to assume she'll get to enjoy for years to come. Bladder control, for example, even when faced with the unexpected sneeze. Ability to put on pants from a standing position, or to roll over in bed without the physical equivalent of an act of Congress. Reaching her toenails. That type of thing. I'm sure you understand.

Without subjecting you to grimace-inducing details, allow me to mention that none of the above are accomplished with any amount of grace these days. Just sayin'.

There is one slightly more complex skill of which I've always been rather proud. I am a champion, A-1, 5-star professional barfer. If you have to have someone puking their brains out in your car/home/close proximity, I’m not an altogether bad pick. (The opposite of my status on potential dodgeball teams, just for reference.) For one, I rarely do it. When the unpleasant opportunity presents itself (read: first 20 weeks of pregnancy) my abilities really shine. I never give false alarms, and never miss the vomit container of choice. I'm pretty quiet about the whole event, and relatively clean about it, too. I'll even hold my own hair back and prep my own toothbrush afterwards. As I mentioned to my little brother in his weekly email, I'm like the vomiting Bizarro-Tommy. In his entire 20 years of existence he's never made it to the Verbal Warning Of Other People Who Might Be In the Splash Zone/Identify The Target stage, let alone the more advanced Contain and Dispose stages. Amateur.

Now I plan on subjecting you to grimace-inducing details. Proceed with caution. (Side note: Dane Campbell, when you read this in 3-6 months, you should probably skip the next part.)

On our way home from a riveting Childbirth Education class last week, I was suddenly struck with the unfortunate and untimely urge to rapidly empty the entire contents of my stomach. Knowing we were not in possession of suitable containment apparatus (deduct 1 point) I immediately closed my eyes, tipped my seat back, and slipped into Plan B, aka Breathe Slowly And Swallow Frequently While Trying To Convince Yourself It's Just Heartburn.

Plan B failed in a big way.

I managed to recoup a tiny part of Plan C (Heave Into Partially Empty Paper KFC Bag, of course) for rounds 2-5 only. In extraordinarily uncharacteristic fashion, round 1 left me splattered, baffled, and emotional. And, according to Sweetie Pie, fragrant.

P executed the Nearest Gas Station Exit Strategy to perfection, and hustled inside to badger the attendant for some paper towels and a plastic bag. I attempted to initiate the aforementioned Contain and Dispose stages.

Operative word: attempted.

My award winning, multi-layered Puke Plan sadly did not contain a contingency plan of action for what happens when the soaked bottom of a paper KFC bag falls out and dumps rounds 2-5 all over my feet.