I woke up this morning with a five-year-old in my armpit, snuggled down tight and safe and warm warm warm and a husband at my back who’s still working manfully on delivering a big, healthy, happy kidney stone. The sunlight – sunlight in Oregon, folks! – stood on his tiptoes at the back of the cherry tree crowd, straining to see us, and he winked at me through the window whenever he caught me staring.
It was the Last Peaceful Moment of the day, and I’ve decided to retrospectively cherish it. I’m waving to it right now, in fact, with just my fingers, all flirtatious and young and innocent. It was a great, great moment.
Five minutes later, I was sitting in the bathroom when — KABOOM! — the fireworks started. Cai exploded like a volcano and molten rivers of vomit cascaded spectacularly down my bed.
The crowd oohed and aahed because, come on, if there’s ever a day to start with a BANG, Independence Day is it, and Cai should get a medal for Excellent Timing.
Cai ran to the bathroom which, if you recall, was where I was sitting.
I was sitting in the bathroom.
Doing what one usually does when one sits in the bathroom.
So when the pajama-clad, vomit-laced, erupting-volcano-child ran toward me, I… I rose swiftly to greet him and to make my chair immediately available for all of his chair-like needs.
You know, life throws a lot of things at mamas, usually body fluids. And it’s our job to rise to each occasion and lob the goo gracefully back. It’s like a giant game of chicken, and we see how long we can volley before life or we are covered in the mess. We know, of course, that we can’t escape the game unscathed, but, bless our hearts, we try.
I want you to know that I displayed a kind of pottying maturity today – a sort of genius of control – to which my children can only aspire. Because I rose to the occasion, and I did not add to the mess. And on a beautiful, important day like this one, I’m marking that firmly in the Win Column.
Happy Independence Day, friends.
May the sun shine brightly upon you, and may the mess be only as bad as it must.
P.S. I’m pretty sure I’m using the internet wrong. I think I’m supposed to make my life look prettier and not talk about the toilet so much. Sorry about that.
P.P.S. Whatcha doin’ today? Anything more fun than cleaning up puke and standing watch for kidney stones? ‘Cause I need some vicarious living. Help a girl out.