So I am cruising down the street this morning after I dropped the boys at school. Boo was in the back chatting away in her little bird, singsong voice. "Mommy I like this song, do you like this song? This song makes me want to dance. Do you want to dance Mommy? Mommy I like to dance. Do you like to dance? When you were little did you dance like me? Did you have lots of friends? Did you play Barbies? Mommy, do you like grapes?" Seriously. All in one breath.
And then a moment of silence. A brief moment.
"Mommy!" she exclaims with so much excitement I was sure she had just seen a rainbow, or Tinkerbell, or the entire cast of High School Musical hitch hiking on the side of the road.
". . . . I think I might throw up!"
"I'm sorry, what?" I ask, because I am absolutely sure I did not hear her correctly.
"I think I need to throw up," she says, still thinking about it. "Yes... Yes. I am pretty sure I do." I see her nodding and smiling at me in the rear view mirror.
"What?" I say again, because obviously I am just not following her.
And then I see her eyes get very big and round. "Yes Mommy," she whispers. "I am going to throw up."
And before I could react, she did. Three full heaves of clear, snotty fluid right in her lap. I pulled into the parking lot of Wal-Mart. Thank God they are everywhere. I opened the back door and there was my baby girl, her bottom lip sticking out, her eyes full of tears.
"I threw up!" she cried.
"Yes, Baby, you did," I said as I am trying to wipe her up with napkins from my glove box. "Are you okay?"
"No!" she wailed. "I threw up all over my pink cargo capris from the Gap!"
Oh. Dear. Lord. I am in so much trouble with this kid.
I cleaned her up as best I could and then took her inside Wal-Mart to buy her something else to wear at her Granny's for the day. It drives my MIL crazy that I never have a change of clothes for her. Maybe I have learned my lesson? And even in Boo's weakened, post-barfy state, she still insisted on approving the two pairs of pajamas I picked out for her.
"No, Mom. I want purple, not blue!" she says as she rolls her eyes, her head leaning against the side of the cart. "Princesses, not Winnie the Pooh. I'm not a baby."
When we got back to the car I start stripping her down - "Mommy! Don't get the throw up from my pants on my Skechers!" - and wiping her up with baby wipes. I clean out her car seat and throw a towel down for her to sit on until I can wash the cover. And we all know what kind of a joy that is. Seriously, car seat manufacturers. Can you make them anymore difficult to put back together?? I get her back in the car, buckle her up, throw away the trash of pukey napkins and baby wipes and hand her a bottle of Sprite. I get back in the car to continue the journey to Granny's, feeling guilty that I am dumping a sick baby off so I can go to work.
"Are you okay, Baby?" I ask her, looking at her in the rear view mirror again.
"Yes," she says with a big smile. "I'm hungry. Can we stop and get a pizza?" Mind you, it's 9:00 AM.
And with that, the guilt magically disappeared. This mom thing sure isn't for the weak at heart.