As a teenager I remember standing in the doorway of the bathroom holding a sick little sister while my mom mopped up the vomit this sister had just projected across the floor. I was thinking, Oh my gosh, I can’t ever be a mother because I could never in my life clean another person’s vomit. I just couldn’t. I think I would die.
Twenty years later, and now with six kids of my own, I found myself about to disembark a cruise ship. It was 9:00 a.m. on a sunny Florida morning as the elevator doors opened to a lobby full of people. Without warning, my two year old erupted. The multihued contents of his stomach were suddenly everywhere: cascading in waterfalls down my shirt, beading in my son’s thick lashes, pooling in my sandals.
My husband and I just stood for a long moment looking at each other. He on the outside of the elevator, Me standing stunned inside holding Jacob as the last remnants of his breakfast (and apparently yesterday’s lunch and dinner) dripped down the glass elevator walls.
“Bleh.” Jake said, blinking. “Bleh!”
A wonderful feature of this cruise was that they took care of our luggage for us the night before. So nice and hassle free, as long as you don’t find …