Last night, I became acquainted with the last of the bodily fluids parents have to deal with: vomit. It took me totally by surprise because I'd basically already given myself a pass on this one. You see, I thought spit-up counted. Oh, was I wrong.
Spit-up, in retrospect, is kind of cute and endearing compared to actual vomit. Actual vomit that coats your baby's crib, the floor, your sheets, your duvet, your shirt, your pants, and your socks all in one shot. Actual vomit that has a stench that lingers through the entire night no matter how much you try to clean. Actual vomit that has remnants of what your child has last eaten, and those things are string cheese and olives, not breastmilk and more breastmilk. Actual vomit that I was left to try to clean up myself with a shaking, puke-covered toddler clinging to my chest because my husband was out of town for work.
Suffice it to say, last night was a long one in the Spaghetti household. And today will be filled with load after load of laundry followed by a hot shower as I try to erase this memory for all of us
But, I feel like my induction into this club called motherhood has been fully completed with this last round of hazing. Sure, there will be plenty of surprises to come, but dealing with bodily fluids won't be among those surprises.
Please tell me I'm right about that, won't you?