Memories...Stinky Memories

I look so cute and sweet. You obviously have no idea of the horrors yet to come.

Childhood is rough, you know. I mean first there’s someone constantly nagging you to pick up your socks or brush your teeth. And once you’ve mastered addition they throw subtraction in the mix and write your name on a big board when you can’t stop retelling the plot of the most recent Phineas & Ferb episode.

It’s a minefield, I tell ya. There’s so much rough stuff hitting the under-junior-high set each day that it’s so important to hold on to those good childhood memories. I myself cherish the special memory of the time the doctor informed my mother that I am indeed a genius. She probably doesn’t remember this, but then she’s not the genius is she?

At this stage in her life, Chris probably isn’t old enough to pull up the highlight reel of her six years. That doesn’t stop her, though, from reminding me about once a week, “Remember that time I threw up on your back, Mommy?” And if you ask her what she remembers most about being a little kid, other than the fact that she reminds me that I gave her a BOY HAIRCUT (she means she was bald as a cueball) that’s the story she will tell.

Some of the offending gummy snacks. Pre-disaster.

OK, let’s get something straight. This cannot be a memory for her. I think she was barely a year old when the barfing-down-my-back incident occurred and I’m sure this is a result of the thousand times I told her how badly I wanted to give her away that day. For me it was a pretty traumatic morning in her babyhood and certainly one I will never forget. In fact, I still smell the faint odor of baby sick when I think about it.

Here’s how it all went down. I was rushing around the way mothers often do, because when there’s not enough time in the morning that is inevitably when crisis hits. And because babies take up so much time there is pretty much a crisis every day, which I’m sure didn’t paint a good impression of me at the new job I started a few months after Chris was born.

This particular morning, I was carrying Chris on my shoulder, trying to scrabble together a lunch while she gnawed on a healthy breakfast of gummy fruits. I know, I know, mother of the year. Those gummy fruits are vaguely fruit-shaped & flavored sugar, but trust me it hasn't hindered her health in any way. Actually because she has always been nearly a head taller than all her peers I'm thinking of pushing a black coffee & cigarette habit to stunt her growth before she bankrupts me by constantly buying new pants. Nevertheless, the gummy candies are what the kid was enjoying that early morning as I rushed to get out the door.

Where's breakfast? Check your shirt.

What happened next was perhaps nature's way of telling me I should be feeding my kid better - despite my lack of planning - because the second I picked her up, she threw up down my back. As anyone with a kid can tell you, if you're in a pinch you can certainly hide the look of spit up by damping off your shirt. However, nothing short of a 20 minute wash cycle with odor-blasting detergent will ever eradicate that particular smell. And if you spend any amount of time around others who may turn up their nose at you knowingly, you'd better just scratch that particular outfit and start all over.

So of course, since I have some compassion for the general public's nostrils, I ripped off my shirt and started over again. Now I'm at least 5 minutes later than I was in my original hurry. And of course, the second I pick up the kid, it's a repeat performance. Another shirt for the dirt pile.

And would you believe it, now that I’m a full 10 minutes late and sweaty from running up and down the stairs to dress, it happens again! I didn't know a child could contain so much spit up and frankly I was tired of picking her up thinking that I must be squeezing her in the wrong place.

What could I do but sigh and clomp up the stairs to change my shirt yet again. As I head to the closet I’m hit by a terror I’m sure at least one other mother has felt in her time: I have been yakked on so many times that I have no clean clothes to wear to work! In tears, I rip off my shirt once again and calculate how quickly I can wash it. By this point, I figured, I was already so late that I might as well just do a while wash cycle and call in late with an honest story. If they require proof I could even snap a photo of me in a dingy bra next to the laundry pile with those cartoon odor lines photo shopped in.

As I threw the offending ruined shirt on top of the washing machine while grabbing all the other vomity clothes to create a full wash load – no problem there – I caught a glimpse of something reddish-orange on my back in the mirror. Like a dog, I did the tail chasing thing in front of the mirror trying to wipe off whatever it could be. After finally contorting my arm into the correct unnatural position to be able to grab what was on my back, I was grossed out beyond comprehension. You would think by the third time of throwing up there would be nothing but milk-colored water in Chris’ stomach. No such luck. Nearly glued to my back was none other than a half-digested glob of gummy fruit. I almost expected it to start sliding down my shoulder like a sugary slug and when I slapped it off my back I watched it in horror as it lay motionless in the bathroom sink.

I have a feeling I know why Chris likes this story so much. Like any six-year-old lady, she finds great glee in any bodily functions - especially farting, throwing up and blowing snot. So classy. And it’s probably just hilarious to know that your bodily function caused someone else to jump around like a screaming orangutan.

All I can say is that I hope this “memory” is replaced by something more enjoyable as she ages. I shudder when I imagine her at her wedding, a grown woman yelling, “Mommy! Tell the story about how I barfed on your back!”

Ahhhhh, memories.

What? Have I made a mess?