This morning I had one of those mothering moments that was so stupendous that it has burned itself indelibly onto the walls of my memory. It went like this:
It's 8 a.m. and I am in my daily Near-Frantic Mode trying to dress myself, gather the baby's things, make sure Birch has all his things and get us out the door in time to keep him from getting one of those stupid "tardies." (I want to beat to death the nincompoop who decided that any kid who is a minute late gets a "tardy" and that any kid with 3 tardies is in some sort of trouble...whoever came up with this idea definitely didn't have to get both an 8-year-old and a baby out the door.) I run out the door to turn the car on to thaw it out and when I run back in the house to grab the kids, I notice the baby has crawled under the coffee table. When I bend down to get her, I notice she is...ugh..I can barely even type this...she is grinning up at me while happily snacking on a...a...a...
A pile of cat puke.
Yep. It was the chunky kind, too. Like the offending cat didn't even bother to chew...just gulped it down then yacked it back up, kibble intact.
She seemed annoyed when I scooped her up and frantically wiped and washed it off her chin and mouth. "Sheesh, Mom," she was thinking,"What's your deal, anyway? Can't I even snack?'
I think I'm totally traumatized. I'll never be able to erase that image from my head. And I thought that the time Birch was a baby and had a rotavirus and puked right into my open mouth was nasty...