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| I got this. |
On the eve of Birthday Weekend (P.J.’s birthday, followed by Nora’s birthday party, followed by Nora’s actual birthday), I decided to take the whole fam out for milkshakes. It was a Friday evening, I had already baked a gazillion and two cupcakes, and Peej happens to think milkshakes are the answer to everything. It was an obvious choice.
We went to Margie’s Candies, a pretty durned famous Chicago institution of Ice Cream Awesome. We got a booth. Who cared that it was painfully close to bedtime or that it was positively frigid outside? WE WERE CELEBRATING.
I decided to forgo my usual coconut sundae in favor of a seasonal pumpkin shake (which turned out to be a wise move because of its sheer deliciosity). P.J. stuck with his trusty chocolate malt. And Nora, after a solid half hour of chanting StrawberryMilkshakeStrawberryMilkshake at us, panicked when the waiter asked her what she wanted.
“Vanilla! No, I don’t want vanilla! Strawberry! Did I say strawberry?” (Susannah decided to share with me and steal all of our cookie wafers.)
Nora was so excited. Despite our insane collective sweet tooth and seemingly random ability to declare events A Holiday, she had never had her own milkshake. And perhaps, in retrospect, Margie’s 80 ounces o’ shake wasn’t the best starting off point. But as a girl who herself used to shake in sugar anticipation, I respected her enthusiasm.
We were served while in the midst of a conversation with the table directly at my elbow. Are you sure those girls are sisters? Look at their eyes! How special, milkshakes with your family! Nora took a four minute-long sip. Zuzu successfully took all of our cookies and more than a few sips of various shakes.
I had barely tried my own milkshake by the time Nora crawled on my lap and whispered that she didn’t feel good. Now, this is the kid who tells me this exact phrase to get out of going to the potty or getting her pajamas on. So I told her to take a little sip of water and some deep breaths.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
But she put her head down on the table. I wasn’t fully paying attention to her purported belly troubles, to tell the truth, because I was basking in the praise of the family still seated beside us. You’re making such fun memories for them. What gorgeous children!
P.J. went over to the counter to ask for our bill, just so we could jet out when we were ready. I turned my head to ask him for some more napkins when I felt Nora take a sharp breath.
“Mommy.”
“Nora?”
And she emptied the contents of her stomach. Twice. (A lot.) Directly into my impressively ninja-like hand- a prideful moment that was short-lived, once I realized that, even though I had super quick reflexes, I also had an armful of vomit. Nora was horrified. I was concerned. P.J. was oblivious. And the woman beside me suddenly had something else she really needed to be looking at.
I wiped up Nora with the remaining napkins (and the ones Peej eventually brought over, all the while wondering why I was being so insistent about the damn napkins) and bundled her into her coat, trying to contain the damage. And I’ve gotta tell you- I did a pretty good job. Sure, her coat was doused, my coat wasn’t gonna win any Awesome Smelling awards, and my hand would most likely need a HazMat team- but not an ounce of awful fell anywhere else. So to you, Lady Who Mentally Revoked My Great Parent Status…I’m pretty sure that I did the best anyone could’ve done.
As we left the diner, I felt so sad for Nora, and wondered how I was going to convince her that it really wasn’t that big of a deal, that milkshakes were still an okay Sometimes Treat, and that my catching of her digested shake didn’t affect my love for her in the least…when she took another deep breath. Squeezed my [clean] hand. And genuinely smiled at me.
“Mom, I feel so much better now. That was such a special treat.”
Which made my Nora Feelings swole.
Like to the size of Nora’s post-milkshake tummy.
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