In 1996, the Tamagotchi Pet came out and it was the thing to have. The level of care you provided for the pixelated creature would determine how it grew (if it even stayed alive).

I spent an embarrassingly high number of hours feeding my Chi slices of bread; turning its lights off for bedtime; nursing it back to health via a syringe; cleaning up its poop, monitoring its happiness meter; and disciplining it as needed. Unlike some games, the Tamagotchi required a lot of attention and care. In fact, mom can tell you about the times she took it to work to help it stay alive!

As you’ve hopefully gathered from this fond recap, I loved my Tamagotchi and took my role as parent very seriously. I couldn’t half-ass it, after all.

One winter night, the four of us (this was pre-Dane) were driving home after a hearty Italian dinner. Joelle and I were sharing a blanket while strapped into the built-in car seats of our old, blue mini-van. Per usual, I was absorbed in caring for my growing pet when Joelle started crying. She said her stomach hurt and then proceed to, sans warning, throw up an entire meal of spaghetti and meatballs.

Mom’s reflexes sprang to life and she quickly gathered the blanket into a puke pouch to contain the mess. However, distressed by the vomit covering my lap and trying to suppress my own gag reflex, I still managed to drop my beloved Tamagotchi vet into the vomit satchel she had created. For the remainder of the drive, we both cried. Joelle, because she felt sick. I, because I was angry at Joelle for killing my pet.

It would have been easy (and probably smart) to simply throw away the blanket when we got home. But dad saved the day. He dug through the vomit and retrieved my Tamagatchi — a particular feat because its color unfortunately bore a close resemblance to that of Joelle’s spaghetti dinner. He used a Q-Tip to clean it and a hair dryer to bring it back to life. Not all heroes wear capes.