This was 20 minutes on the heels of what I had previously thought was a large quantity of spit up. All over me.
While I was (finally) eating breakfast and Bean was in her brown chair gazing wide-eyed at the colorful mobile above her, I heard the very distinctive sound of her shitting her pants. And then again. And again.
"Damn, girl," I thought to myself, while I kept eating.
I proceeded to take the last bite of my English muffin and put the plate in the dishwasher when she began to barf. It was like a drunken frat boy, an arc of yellowish liquid pouring out of her mouth like a fountain. One, two, three heaves. And then a little bit out her nose. :(
I rushed to check if she was breathing. She was. And she wasn't alarmed or crying. In fact, she didn't much seem to care. So then I broke down crying. I cried because I didn't want to touch her because she was soaked in liquidy puke. I cried because I was scared she was sick. I cried because I didn't know what to do. It felt like an epic mommy fail.
So who did I first turn to (after calling Alex via the school secretary)? Google. Dr. Goog calmed my nerves, outlining for me that Francie is what's called a 'happy spitter.' In other words, unlikely to be anything to worry over.
The worst part was how instantly alone I felt. I was frozen. I didn't know who to call. I wanted Alex to come home from work. Really, I wanted my own mother. She is who I would lean on. She is who I would seek advice from. She is who I would ask for a hug. It can be lonely being a motherless mother. I just hope Francie doesn't have to be one, too.
I gave myself a few hours to collect myself, cuddling with my now-pajama-clad baby in bed. I stared at her lovingly, hoping and praying she'll turn out to be a perfectly healthy and happy child. If not, I'm putting her in a bubble.
This is a photo after I finally got Bean all cleaned up. See how much she seems to care that she soiled herself from every angle?
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