The gritty underbelly of motherhood

At the ripe old age of 40, I have come to understand that one must find the good in situations whenever one can.

Case in point: A mom moment.

First the grumbling, then the whining. And then…her sleepy eyes widened as her cheeks puffed out a-la-Louis Armstrong. I reacted instinctively, cupping my hands bowl-like at the base of her chin. Less than a second later my hands were filled with the all-too recent contents of my 6-year-old daughter’s stomach.

Instantly and through her wailing, big stepbrother rushed over and ushered her to the bathroom. Everyone else around me began to move about in a completely indecisive flurry, hopping back and forth with the desire to help but with the uncertainty of where to begin.

All the while I stood frozen, cradling the regurgitated remains of my 6-year-old’s dinner as I barked the same words over and over: Towel. I need a towel.

Staring at the gooey mess, I was struck by two thoughts. First, she actually had eaten dinner. Good. Having been absent from the table during the meal, I wasn’t sure I trusted little Miss Picky’s assertions that she did, in fact, eat what she said she had. Not that it did a lot of good at this point.

My second thought: Why do I do this? Why the cupping, the attempted catching of a massive quantity of liquid, of all things? For a start, IT WAS GROSS. Yet like most things mom-ish, gross is never really a factor when leaping into action to help my kids. I mean, if my child were drowning in raw sewage, I would leap in up to my neck without a second thought. And this vomit catching? This wasn’t a first for me. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have found myself in similar situations—at home, in public, in my car—suddenly cupping handfuls of the stuff.

The real issue is the futility of it all. I’m not saving a mess from occurring. Heck, I’m barely even decreasing the mess I’m faced with. My hands can’t contain the matter, and I can’t move anywhere with it, and now I can’t even cross the carpet to help my sick one in the bathroom for fear of leaving a trail—which would now be of MY making.

My son runs forth, attempting to hand me two hand towels and I remain frozen: They’re decorative towels. I can’t use the nice decorative towels for this!

So now my gross, already futile situation has expanded into a gross, futile, and truly ridiculous situation. “They’re just the Halloween towels,” I tell myself, “and you got them on clearance, for the love of gawd. Soak them in bleach later. Whatever. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE HOLDING.”

I’m not a bright girl, but I know what gross is. After a short pause, I acquiesce and use the decorator towels… mere seconds before I turn to see my husband approaching with two old dish rags.

Later, as I disinfected my entire body in a scalding shower, two other things crossed my mind: First, how incredibly attractive I must have looked, cupping said goo. These are the images that a woman really wants to sear into the retinas of her man for all time.

But second, and maybe most important of all, the bright side to this gross and ridiculous and pointless situation: If vomit catching was an Olympic sport, I would be a gold-medal winner.

That’s pretty bright, right? …Maybe I’m trying too hard.