Yesterday at church, Brent was helping with the sound board and I was helping with Sunday School. Preschooler D needed to be in the nursery for two hours. This is not usually a problem. He likes it there. It’s pretty quiet around home most days and I imagine he likes the change of scenery.
Anyway, as I walked in Head Nursery Guy (picture if you will human Eeyore, perpetually gloomy and yet somehow lovable) says, “I was just about to page you.” Now, that’s not good. Nope, not good at all. There was D slumped over in a chair with a juice by his side watching a Veggie Tales video. This was not the boy I often write about. This was not Destructo Boy. This was not my Busy Busy Bee.
At that moment Brenda came swooping in. I would just love to hate Brenda. Trim and hilariously funny with naturally red hair, Brenda has 5 children (four of them boys) who always seem to be doing what they are supposed to be doing. But I just can’t hate her, she is too nice and too gosh darn funny. “This just came on,” she said. “This is not like D.”
“Well,” said I. “Let me get him out of here before he contaminates anyone,” and I crossed to the other side of the “security” counter. At that moment he let out a really juice burp. You know the sound, moms and dads. It just fills a gal with dread. Something’s coming and it’s not good.
“That was a pretty juicy burp,” said Brenda. “Let me see if we have anything for the ride home — just in case.” She turned and left . . . and D spewed a whole morning’s worth of animal crackers onto my loafer.
Now in my defense I was wearing a one of a kind hand knit sweater vest I have had for years. I love that sweater, so maybe you will forgive me when you hear that as my poor preschooler, who has really never been sick, was retching all over the carpet, I took a deep breath and shouted out . . .
Brenda came running out, snatched my child over the counter and as I stood there staring down at my loafer, hauled the poor child into the bathroom. By the time I came out of my stupor, she had finished holding the kid over the toilet, encouraged him to wipe his mouth, and found him a drink of water . . .
. . . while I took off my sweater.
Oh, friends and loved ones, this was not my proudest parenting moment — the moment I chose my sweater over my dear little child.
As we walked out of the nursery a tiny little voice said, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
Oh, baby. Everybody throws up.