I'm Official

(**I don't anything about the churched referred to at the end.  The clip is just too perfect to pass up.**)

As seen in one of my favorite movies, Nacho is concerned that Steven has not been baptized.  Going up against Satan's Cavemen, los Luchadores needed all the help they could get.  To Nacho, baptism brought a unique power and strength.  It was something he wanted Steven to have; something he needed him to have.

I concur with Nacho.

Yesterday I was at lunch with some friends.  We somehow forgot it was Spring Break.  And it was noon.  So, the restaurant was bursting at the seams with lunch-break professionals, and moms desperate for something to do with their kids until they went out of town.  It was a madhouse, but we got lunch.  The older kids ate.  Then they played.  All was well.

"Was" being the operative word.

W was on the brink of a nap and it was starting to show.  He was on some sort of hunger strike and refused to eat any real food, but boy, he thought those Goldfish crackers sure were good.  I tried to sneak in normal food while he devoured all the little fishies I had.  My plan didn't work, so I just let him finish off the fish.  He had to eat something, right?

After his "meal," W let me know that he was no longer interested in sitting in a crowded, loud restaurant.  So I got him out of his chair and, while doing the mom bounce, I pulled our things together.  I must have been a little distracted because all of the sudden I felt a warm sensation accompanied by a terrible sound.  I wasn't liking where this was going.

There they were:  regurgitated Goldfish.  Everywhere.

All down W's arm, my arm, chest, and puddled between my stomach and W's leg.

It was gross.  Really, really gross.

Once I got over the initial shock, I headed straight for the bathroom.  And, as luck would have it, the bathroom was equipped with a single sink, tiny countertop, motion sensing faucet that turns on for 0.2 seconds, and an automatic paper towel dispenser that spits out 3 inches of next-to-nothing paper towel.  It was a joke.

But I did get a laugh.  The pathetic nature of the bathroom accompanied by W's laugh and smile made the situation somewhat comical.  W was fine.  Not sick at all.  As it turns out, sticking his finger down his throat until he gags is his latest trick.  (Definitely not my favorite trick.)

I stripped W of his pants, unsuccessfully wiped myself down, collected my things, and headed for the car.  Once we were buckled in, I assessed (and smelled) the situation.  Sure, it was disgusting.  I was covered in mushy, orange, unrecognizable Goldfish, and  W was half naked in the back seat.  But I didn't freak out.  I didn't get embarrassed.  I even laughed.

I wouldn't say it was a proud moment.  Not at all.  But I was the newest baptized member of Child-Threw-Up-On-Me-In-Public mother's club.  And though I would never deem W anything close to Nacho's opponents, I do share el Luchador's feelings that this said baptism is necessary for salvation.  For me, it's the added strength I need in my quest for motherly salvation.

I will likely be puked on again.  I'll probably be subjected to further public accidents, messes and the like.  But I'm not concerned.  I'm official.

Felicidades!