Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?

Subtitled: It's usually your fault

To make everyone laugh, I thought I'd relay a charming event that happened to us yesterday.

We (meaning I, Jeanne, mother and fool) to accept two birthday party invitations on the same day... in New Jersey. And not just New Jersey, but the first one was in Princeton. Where they were conveniently also holding commencement. Which the mother of the birthday girl failed to mention. She also failed to mention that she was serving 17 different types of baked goods.

I had to literally chase Z around the house and down the driveway, many, many times and change C's diaper twice (once after I had gotten her in the carseat) before heading to party number two.

The second party was thankfully on the way back home so we popped curious george in the portable DVD player and headed an hour and a half again (but at least it was north). Both girls sat transfixed by that naughty little monkey for the entire ride. As the credits rolled on georgie, we pulled down to the end of the cul-de-sac and Howie-started to park the car. He looked in his rear-view to check the distance and.....

wait for it......


Z barfed. Chocolate frosting spewed forth like a demonic fondue fountain.

I jumped out of the still moving vehicle and ripped open her door. Before i could get my now barf-soaked hands under the blanket she was holding to unbuckle her, she let loose again. and again. I managed to catch most of it with my hands and her blanket. I pulled her out of the car and quickly stripped her down to her socks and diaper. Then she started to cry.

But not because she had just vomited a willie-wonka-esque fountain. But because it had gotten on her blanket. Her very favorite, carry around the house, can't sleep without it, stick it up her nose whilst sucking her thumb blanket. She's essentially naked and screaming "Clean it off Mommy! Wipe off Blanket!" in my friend's driveway.

Did I mention we are three hours late to party #2 and now all the guests are leaving? Truly priceless.

Thankfully I have no shame and the mother of this birthday boy was my grad school roommate and therefore thought nothing of me tossing a vile vat of vomit into her washing machine. It's happened before. And I mean before kids.

And how was ms. Z after this debacle? She was the life of the party, running, playing and eating pretzels.

All I could think was, "thank god it was only one of them"