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.