A pile of vomit and a shirtless mother

Tuesday morning found me bustling about getting ready for my joy school lesson. Finally at about 9:00, thirty minutes before the children were due to arrive, I decided it was high time I got myself and my child ready.
I deemed that not having the cups and napkins on the counter ready for snack time would be much less of a problem for me than not having hair done when kids started showing up, so I started in that direction. The need for a few minutes quality time with my flat iron was amplified my the fact that I’d gone to bed on wet hair the night before.
Baby Girl was lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs where she’d been since I told her she could not have a Dora yogurt drink until she finished her cereal, which she was “too full to eat”.
I decided to tackle her tresses first and called her to come up stairs. Her response was “I’m too tired to do that” So I walked down and hefted her up the stairs vowing with each step that she’d have a nap as soon as the other children left my home.
“I’m going to throw up” she said, as we were reaching the top of the stairs. This is not a statement to be taken lightly. I cupped my hand beneath her chin and began to run.
A step or two later life cereal began to spew forth.
That stuff just kept on coming!
She finally stopped, and I took her the rest of the way to the bathroom and began to dispose of my handful. “I’ll just use my pitcher” she says as she begins to toss even more of her cookies into the bath pitcher.
I got my hands clean, removed my puked up shirt and got her in the bath. then, as I was debating whether to clean up the floor first or call the joy school parents and tell them not to come, the door bell rang.
Tiny Boy had been playing far away from the up-chuck… until now. There I stood, in my bra, hair standing on end, baby veering toward a puddle of disgust, and a guest at the door.
I was fortunate enough to have a basket of clean laundry close at hand. I scooped up the wee child and held him over one arm while I dug through the basket of what seemed to be nothing but childrenswear until I produced the one and only adult shirt in the lot which I donned, somehow, on my way down the stairs.
“I hope it’s ok that we’re early” says the mother at the door.

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