Choklit no make me sick, Daddy!

Like a twisted, disgusting moral of Wonka proportions, my little Veruca/Augustus projectile vomited half a bag of chocolate that her Daddy, in what I can only hope was a Vicodin induced stupor, allowed her to eat this evening. Dinner sat half-prepared while I bathed the brown, gooey, screaming mess of my daughter, put some seriously nasty towels into the washing machine, and scrubbed the four foot square portion of her bedroom carpet that looked like a cross between an industrial candy spill and a horror movie. I did so with no hope of retrieving the original carpet color, only of destroying the odor. When that was done, I changed my clothes for the third time today, and finished dinner. The apples I had been chopping for the salad had browned, but either no one noticed, or they were too smart to mention it.