@aspiringmama cleaning puke out of every nook & cranny of a car seat (after taking the damned thing apart) has got to be one of hell's circles. #motherhood
Maybe it's the writer in me. Or maybe I don't have enough people over three feet tall who call me mama to talk to. In either case, I find it totally normal to have my kid puke up lunch and dinner all over themselves and their car seat in a glorious waterfall of nastiness and while cleaning up the chunks, find myself thinking: "Why yes! This would make for a perfect blog post!"
The Husband thinks I share too much online. But then again, he hasn't read my book yet, so I'm sure that will be more motivation for my Muse to gossip on the blog whenever that happens. (Wait...what were we talking about again? Me sharing too much? Right...)
The day started with me thinking I wouldn't have gotten out of bed if I had actually been in the position to make that choice. Being that I don't, I did. And wished with every passing second that I could hire a babysitter to come hang out just so I could trod back upstairs, bra-less and unkempt, on the way to making my dream come true.
First we had the birthday party I really didn't want to go to. Mainly because it was an hour away, but also because it meant talking to real live people. In person. And using much more than 140 characters at a time. But I went so Buttercup could socialize and left as soon as dinner was served so we could grab some gluten-free grub on the way home at a steak house.
While we ate, I ended up praying that the blue-cheese ranch dressing Buttercup dipped her tomato into before I could stop her wouldn't reappear before we got home. I am guessing I didn't pray hard enough. Or that God is a bit pissed off that I only show up on Easter because I have an excuse to buy a new dress and primp for the event. Because on a mountain on the way back to the desert, exactly half-way between the party and home, Buttercup lost the contents of her belly.
This sucked for a variety of reasons, of course. The main factors being that:
*it took me 30 minutes on a horror-flick worthy stretch of secluded road with no cell-phone service to clean up what I could with
*the five baby wipes I happened to have in a coupon-provided sample pack which in fact
*didn't really clean up a damned thing because
*there was more puke than cleaning supplies readily available and the majority of it was sitting in a little pool on her carseat and
*I finally said fuck it, kissed my kid, made the sign of the cross, and buckled her up in the backseat like a Big Girl, and drove home 15 miles under the limit, pissing off every driver in line behind me.
After arriving home and tucking her in (with no bath because she was already asleep on her feet), I had to trudge back out to wrestle the seat out of the van, strip it, and get a toothbrush to de-nastify it.
Did I mention I was making a sandwich and packing The Husband's lunch cooler while I attended to said nasty?
Ok, so I did.
I may or may not have forgotten to mention this to The Husband.
Who says I share too much online.