Scared doesn't cut it.

We all trickled into the driveway turning an empty concrete slab into a mini-parking lot. It has long been a Sunday tradition. Mom cooks, dad frets and we all eat ourselves silly. It is brat day and they have been simmering on the stove since before church. Mom's kitchen smells like a little slice of heaven. We all take our places at the table, built to feed a family of six now expanded to accommodate all of us, including the grand kids. The prayer is said and bowls of steaming food are passed this way and that. We chat, we laugh and we are all happy.

Lizzy is proudly sitting across of me. She has recently graduated to a stool in the chair. The same stool her mom sat on as a child. She reaches for a chip and Rick happily hands it to her with a reminder to be careful. Orange powdered cheese smears across her smiling face.

We all turn and look as her little face turns red. He gags and gags again. Her mom picks her up and pats her back. Everything in the room freezes. She gags some more and tries to cough. Her eyes are wide and her face red clinging to her mom "HELP ME!" Without blinking three chairs race away from the table. My brain has shut off and everything is happening like I am watching as a seperate person.

I'm on my knee and Lizzy is flipped over it. My left hand cradling her chest and my right hitting her in the back between her shoulders. A thin line of orange drool spans between her little mouth and the linoleum. Slowly it turns to a steady stream of vomit. As the puddle on the floor stops growing, she takes a deep breath and lets out the most heart warming scream I have ever heard. I hand her back to her mother as I bite back the tears that are pooling in my eyes. This is the first puddle of vomit I have ever been thankful for.