Making Do

So on Saturday afternoon, BF and I loaded baby in his stroller, put puppy on her leash and headed down to the grocery store to do our shopping for the week.  All was going well (and you’ll be surprised to know that there was no spit up on my clothing, my hair was done, and I had make up on.  If I am honest, it’s because I had to serve on a panel at the college a couple hours earlier  but, still, I liked the symbolism of being back in the grocery store in far better shape exactly one week after the dirty, spit-up, mismatched incident).  Anyway, all was going well until we hit dairy when baby spit up some carrot/ tomato veggie blend.  And that bright orange spit up?  Not so cute or easy to mask. 

BF looked at me, mildly panicked, “baby just spit up!” 

I backed away from the Stonyfield Yogurt and worked my way over to the stroller where baby was indeed coated in blood orange spit up.  Nice.  Surveying the scene, I did what any unprepared mom would do (all I had was the stroller, people, and my debit card in my pocket).  I took off baby’s socks, wiped him down, and then deposited the dirty socks into the little storage pocket on the stroller. 

BF looked at me incredulous.  “I cannot believe you just did that,” he said.

“What did you want me to do,” I asked.  “His sock is all I had.”  I was defending myself.   

“No, that’s totally what I would have done,” he said.  And there you have it, folks, America’s most rookie parents. 

You’ll be happy to know, however, that the next aisle we went to after dairy was baby supplies where we purchased wipes that we went ahead and left in the stroller pocket for next time.  Because there will be a next time and, fortunately, we’ll be ready.

PS. Baby’s socks WERE cream.