My least favorite place to take my son is to a store. The battle of getting into the cart, the fact that his arms can reach the shelves, the bribing with snacks, the eventual flinging of the snacks, the checkout line, the getting him back out of the cart- all of it stresses me out. But we parents, we do it anyway, don't we? Multiple times a week, sacrificing our good mood for tubes of toothpaste and yet another gallon of milk.
Needing a random assortment of things, a superstore would allow me to get all I needed with only one cart debacle. So on to Walmart we went. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich ready for a meltdown and pack of fruit snacks if things got really dicey. Up and down the aisles we wound collecting our supplies as he munched quietly on his pbj. Finally, we made it to our last department-photo. At the counter I ask for my pictures and then manage to talk the young employee into checking me out there. He hesitantly agrees as I start pulling art supplies, kale, and baby wipes out of the cart. But three minutes later, I was all ready to go, giant-front-of-the-store-line avoided!
Feeling like a winner, we left this far corner of the world and headed out. Winding through a few side aisles, we hit that big opening that leads straight to the door. Then my son starts crying out of nowhere, which is really uncharacteristic of him. I am not saying I have one of those kids that doesn't cry, but it is usually preceded by the word "no" or running face first into a door. Again. But nevertheless, he was fussing and chanting "Momma hod choo! Momma hod choo!" So I scoop him and he lays his head on my shoulder. Figuring that he is just tired, I lean my face to his, enjoying the little cuddle. One hand on the cart, we continue toward the door, past a big cardboard display of bargain towels, toward a a wire rack of $5 decorative wall paintings of flowers, and birds and the like. Then suddenly
He ralphs...
Everywhere...
Thrice...
I freeze. Not sure what to do, I just sit down. He is still laying on my shoulder, but now both of us are coated in yuck. I keep telling him, "It's ok. It's ok. It's ok." which I realize now was entirely for myself. As I am sitting there, looking on at the disaster that has befallen upon this major thoroughfare, in this the busiest store in America, an older man stops to ask if we are ok. Snapping back to life, I respond that having clean up paged would be so helpful. He smiles and leaves. A minute later I hear the call, "Clean up needed in action alley." Action alley? Damn skippy this is action alley. Towels are cheap, you can decorate every wall of a room for $20.00, oh, and there is vomit everywhere.
People continue down the path toward me, first noticing that my cart is not moving, then realizing why, then taking a detour. I apologize profusely and everyone is profusely nice to me in return. In between apologies, I watch the giant mechanical door, just 20 yards away opening and closing, letting the non-puking shoppers out into the night. Yet, there we sat. Together on the floor, coated in throw up, feeling the cool draft with each customer's exit. It was lonely. I was humbled. I was so mom. Not grossed out yet, not trying to flee the scene in shame, just rocking my little boy as he rubbed his face further in toward my neck, smearing his trails of his evacuation into my shoulder. I was reminded so instantly of all that I would endure for him. I always knew I would give him my organs or fight off a bear for him, but I hadn't considered the possibility that could end up on that hateful people of walmart website with vomit in my hair. But I would do it for him.
This reminded me of one of the most tender moments from The Simpsons.
