Tonight I had a mom-isode (that’s mom episode) which I will now sear into your consciences. You’re welcome in advance.
Last weekend, my friend and I planned a playdate for today (Thursday) which requires a bit of preparation because we live an hour apart.
Admittedly the visit was more for me to hang with my friend than for our children to play together, but sometimes, moms just need each other and the kiddos can choose to play or be bored. That’s a post for another day.
Anyway, we had a nice visit- birthday celebration for her 1-year-old, catching up about the last 3 months of lock down, and just enjoying each other’s company.
The time came to leave and as always, my children were on me like white on rice about what we’d pick up for dinner on the road. I hurridly put on my daughter’s seabands for her outrageous carsickness/vertigo issues. They worked like a charm on the way there, through 10 extra minutes of swervy curvy road when my phone died and I got lost, so I was a happy camper with that investment.
We get on the interstate and everything is going relatively to plan. And of course, that’s when I hear, “I have my wristbands on! I don’t know why I’m puking!?”
The P word… Nothing like it to set me on edge and pump adrenaline through me until I’m on the verge of vomiting as well…
I’ve never actually experienced anyone vomit while uninterruptedly speaking to me and maintaining a positive attitude. That was a new experience for me. My daughter totally managed it. What can I say- I’m raising a winner. She even managed an evasive manuever to keep her Lamby from being hit by the onslaught, and instead targeted the back of her brother’s seat. Atta girl, priorities.
So I pulled into a Wendy’s parking lot and commenced cleaning and extraxting the sopping-wet, sick-stinking 3-year-old from her soiled carseat and clothing. 20 wipes later, she was clean enough to re-dress… Except the spare clothing I keep in the car at all times had not been changed to summer from winter attire…so… Leggings with no top it is. Dear daughter, please don’t cement into your mind this emergency wear as your standard for modest summer attire.
Thankfully, after the unripe blackberry pukefest of 2019, I started carrying a bag of that janitorial grade soak-up-the-vom dust in the car. It was liberally sprinkled, but her carseat was… beyond unridable. And the smell alone… Repeated sugar snap peas and birthday cookie aren’t gonna be bottled for Yankee Candles any time soon.
I checked the rear air vents on a whim- she’d kicked them closed. And I deduced curvy roads plus overheating equals regurgitation. So I fiddled with the settings until I got the a/c to blast and moved her to a different seat.
About this time, I’d just about given up on life, so I just went through the Wendy’s drive through for our dinner… Sorry husband- I completely blanked on your dinner. Which somehow I’d prophetically warned him about last night. When I know, I know. We’re comfortably predictable, this bunch.
So we get back on the road to drive home. After copius warnings to hold on tight to bottles and/or secure them in the cup holders, the 2-year-old drops his in the cavernous void between the carseat and the side of the van and commences releasing blood-curdling screams of desperation in his failed attempts to retrieve it.
His forlorn banshee shrieks trigger the 5-month-old crying, and nothing in the world except mama and some nursing will quiet her soul. Except that I was trying my hardest not to throw up from the sick-smell now circulating the van. Meanwhile the 5-year-old reminds Mama to slow down, and watch the road as he assembles his kid’s meal toy.
Just get home. Hell or high water, house or HEAVEN, Jesus just take me home.
And then, my daughter, having survived the entire upheaval with her high spirits intact, begins to hum the Little House on the Prairie theme song… Which she then mashes up into Come Thou Fount (insert vomit joke here), and O Come O Come Emmanuel.
That of course makes me laugh until I cry and I look over to see this National Lampoon-esque scene of my vomit stained daughter, sweating in leggings in June, with her Lamby on top of her head, whimsically praising God through this whole preposterous parenting experience. And THAT was a lesson I desperately needed. When life stings, we sings… Or… Idk. I’ll work on a catchier motto. The point is, I didn’t toss my cookies or loose my marbles and I made it to the house, past baths, and through bedtime with my sanity and a modicum of compassionate grace. I’ll clean the van tomorrow.
Thank you, Father, Come Lord Jesus!