Tomorrow is another day

There’s barf in my hair for the third time tonight. The first two were direct hits. The third was an aftermath rescue. Summoned by croup's hacking gag, I found him drenched and wailing, desperate for solace.

Try as I might, I can’t be stoic. We’re up for the second night of marathon sleeplessness and rocking and shower-running and bed cleaning. He barfs and I blubber. It’s the helplessness, I think. Something’s wrong with him, and I can’t fix it. All I can do to comfort him is smell as vile as he does in solidarity.

This is every mother’s test of mettle: to calm and soothe, be calming and soothing. Yet here I am:  Miss Scarlett, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ bout no barfin’ babies!