you say tomato...I say bleeaaahhh (gratuitous vomiting noises)

random picture of Elliott about to eat grass

Even before Elliott was born, Dan & I realized that he would play a crucial role in our food wars. He would be the tie breaker for many food stuffs that we were in conflict over. I like bananas and oatmeal - Dan does not. Dan likes corned beef hash, funyuns, and raw tomatoes - and whenever I even get a whiff of said items, I feel like I'm two months pregnant and begin dry heaving.
Up until this past weekend, Elliott has only been exposed to bananas and oatmeal and I'm happy to say, he loves them both. It is fun to think I'm winning the war, even though it really isn't much of a war since Dan & I eat as much as we want of whatever we want (even if it causes the other person to need to leave the room). Still, this weekend, when we were at the Katz's and Meta served up some raw tomatoes (something I would never do), I felt it was my duty as a loving mother to offer some to Elliott (and give his father an opportunity for a comeback). At first, Elliott reacted the same way he always does when given a taste of something different - he furled his brow and made a gagging sound. But then he tossed the tomato around his gums a bit, swallowed it down, smiled, and began to kick his legs happily again. It appeared as though Dan would finally get some points on the board. But when I gave Elliott a second bite of tomato, he had the same initial reaction, but then promptly proceeded to vomit up the entire contents of his stomach. And I'm not talking baby spit up here. There have been many times before when E was younger where I thought he was seriously vomiting, but after witnessing this event, previous events could only be described as the merest bit of spit up. No, this was like a garden hose was attached to his mouth. This was like in the movie, "Kill Bill Vol. 1" when Uma Thurman slices off arms and legs of the Crazy 88 and they spray blood everywhere, except it was liquidy sweet potatoes, cheerios, bagel, & tomato. As I watched my baby in horror and sought out ways to comfort him yet avoid the pool of spew that had collected in his bucket bib, I couldn't help but smile & think to myself, "Stella - 3, Dan - 0."