I have long felt that the true test of parenthood is dealing with vomit. Or, as I like to call it, "throw-up". I haven't called it that since I was a kid, but when I found Ella coated in it Thursday night, throw-up was the term I used most. Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe the memories of childhood illness snaking through the haze of the night, but whatever it was, I kept calling it throw-up and feeling a little bit like a ten year old.
Ella has spit up maybe a total of five times in her entire life. So, really, I have very little experience dealing with bodily fluids that weren't really meant to be expelled. But, I knew my time would come. Every parent must learn to deal with throw-up (yep, and I'm going to keep calling it that) with grace and poise. Or at the very least, without puking all over their child during a time of need. I like to pretend that because I am pregnant I have a weak stomach, so that Paul has to do all of the gross stuff. But, during the whole episode, I only dry heaved, maybe twice. So, don't tell Paul.
All in all, it wasn't too bad. I dragged an extra mattress into Ella's room, and we snuggled and watched a movie on the laptop for a while. (The Happiest Millionaire, actually.) I caught a few more pukes in a bucket, and eventually she fell asleep and has been her happy, loving self ever since.
So, now you know. I have arrived. I am a real parent. Bring on baby number two.