Last night I was in full-blown Super Mom mode, multi-tasking like a pro.  Seriously, you should have seen me: feeding the baby, playing with my three-year old, changing diapers, preparing clothes and food for the next day, all while cooking a New Year’s resolution-inspired healthy dinner for Hub and me.  Then in a second it all changed.

 The baby started crying, I picked him up and…

 Explosive diarrhea.  Projectile vomit.  EVERYWHERE.

I stood there in shock for a moment, dripping from head to toe in puke (not even an exaggeration; I have never seen so much bodily fluid come out of someone so tiny).  I looked down at him and he looked up at me.  He looked so scared, so I just held him to my chest as he grasped my soaked shirt.  I held him tight, kissed his wet hair and sticky cheek and promised him he was alright.  Mommy’s here, everything is ok baby.  In that brief, vomit-drenched moment, making him feel safe was all that mattered.  Shhh my baby boy, I got you….shhh.

“Ewwww! He PUKED! Mom, there’s puke in your hair!” – the three-year old comes bounding in the room and I’m snapped back to reality.  I peeled off all of our clothes right there in the living room (…just as I noticed my shades were open. Oh hi neighbors, nothing to see here, carry on please) and I started a bath.  Well, of course the three-year old didn’t want to be left out of all this fun so all three of us squeezed in my little bathtub as I contemplated how to clean vomit off an oriental carpet.

Later that night as I was rocking my baby to sleep and giving him a little extra snuggle time, I was thinking how that brief snapshot in time was so representative of motherhood in general.  Just as I think “I got this!” a situation arises and proves me wrong.  I am constantly bombarded with lessons in humility.  Another reason is the overwhelming, inherent need I felt to comfort my baby, despite being covered in bodily fluids.  My babies come first.  Before me, before anything and everything.  And ultimately, how all of it is worth it – the good, the not-so-good, the straight up gross, all of it.

 (And for those wondering, no, I didn’t get a chance to wash my hair.  I’m pretty sure there’s some crusty puke in it as I type this.)

 

Mommy’s here, everything is ok baby.

Mommy’s here, everything is ok baby.

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