You Thought It Too. . . Don't Judge Me!

     So the last twenty four hours have been full-on Mommy Duty. No escaping it. It started out like this. . . I brought my little girl (hereafter referenced as Z2) home from school on Thursday afternoon. She attends half day kindergarten. I mentioned that we had some errands to do after lunch to which she replied," Mommy, my tummy hurts."

   "Honey," I said, "It's only one errand. It will be very quick." You see, when Z2 doesn't want to do something or doesn't want to eat a particular thing, she will say her tummy hurts. So of course, when I received this default answer, I assumed nothing was wrong.

   "Okay, dear. If your tummy hurts, let's try some chicken noodle soup," I said in my best, semi-cheery, patient Mommy-voice. I made her the soup and she ate some of it. Off she toddled after lunch to get her socks and shoes. She came back, we loaded up into the car and drove to the craft store.  Our assignment for the day was to make a Valentine box for her "Friendship Party".

(Rabbit Trail: I am so tired of PC Party Names. It's a V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E Party. Just like the Fall Party is a H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N Party. But that, my friends, is another blog for another day.)

So we are going quickly through the store, trying to find the appropriate decorations for an empty oatmeal carton wrapped in pink paper turned to a Valentine Castle Box. We make our selection and go to the line, which is six people long and the lady currently at the counter had THREE FULL CARTS. I'm not even kidding. And she's going through the carts saying,"Yes, I think I want this. . . . No . . I'm going to wait on this." 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that was what the whole shopping process  was for. You know, beFORE you enter the checkout lane. But I digress. 

So Z2 and I are standing in line and the four other ladies move to another checkout lane (there were only two). She looks up and me and says,"Mommy, my stomach really, really, BuLLEEEEEEECCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHH!" all down her front, splattering everywhere. Before I could even react, along came the next wave. And the next. And the next. 

It was all over her, and splattered onto my shoes and jeans most everything else within a five foot radius. Sensing a break in her sickness, I quickly moved her to the door, all the while exclaiming,"I'm sorry! I'm so! so! so! SORRY! Really, I-I-I- I'm just so sorry!"

I get her outside and she starts another wave, leaning her tiny, little head out into the street filling up with rain. She finishes and looks up at me and says,"Mommy, aren't you going to go get my stickers?"

Poor baby. Here we are, in the rain she's sick, I'm thoroughly splattered, we both stink and she is worried about not having her stickers. So I settle her in front of the glass door where I can see her, take a deep breath and walk back in the store. All the moms were watching and beginning to giggle.  They called another cashier to the front to clean up. She comes up, gets one whiff and immediately begins to get sick. Seriously. 

The cashier grabbed my stickers, rang me up and got me out of there ASAP.

All I could think as I walked out to collect my child was," Thank You, God. For once in my career as a mother, I will not have to clean up the puke from the floor."

Yours, completely grateful to whomever had to clean it up,

Melissa