Covered in Spit Up in a Bank Parking Lot

There was spit up on Lucy’s chest and seatbelt, and her crying shifted from “I’m fussy” to “I’m distraught.” Glancing frequently into the review mirror, I did what I could to verbally assure her it would all be okay until I could pull over and troubleshoot her. The spit up seemed minimal and I had half a mind to just power through the twenty minutes to the house, but those screams didn’t sound great.

We found solace in a bank parking lot a few minutes later. Opening her door, I found a six-week-old whose poor face was red and covered in spit up from the nostrils down. What I thought was a more manageable amount from my view in the mirror was closer to an exorcism. She was looking at me desperately for help, and she had tears on her face.

Newborns aren’t born with the ability to produce tears. That comes later. So, the first time you see them, it catches you off guard and breaks your heart into thousands of pieces.

I unbuckled her and scooped her up, wrapping her in Jed’s car blanket to soothe her. Thinking this would be just a short, soothing ride to calm down some evening fussiness, I hadn’t thought to toss Lucy’s backpack in the car. I was without any tools to make the situation a little more comfortable. No wet wipes, no change of clothes, no bottle, no blanket, no pacifier. Just a baby covered in her own spit up, who was now pressed to my chest in the sweltering heat of this parking lot, wrapped in a blanket covered in dog fur.

After stripping her of the ruined onesie and ignoring her dirty diaper, I scooped her back up and paced the parking lot. Mercifully, within minutes, her breathing slowed and she leaned backwards to check out the trees, a new favorite activity of hers. She fell asleep. I hunched her forward onto my chest, careful to lean her onto the shoulder that wasn’t covered in spit up. I wondered if anyone in the bank was watching us and recognized the trials of a new, clueless parent and her child who is learning said parent is imperfect.

Bill and I checked in on the phone and we decided the only way forward was to slip Lucy’s naked self back into her now disgusting car seat, which would risk waking her back up and battling the remaining twenty minutes home in possibly extreme vocal discontent. We decided I’d only pull over in the unlikely event that she wasn’t empty and had more spit up to offer. I sopped up the regurgitated formula best I could with a cloth baby wrap I found on the floor board, apologized profusely to her, and slipped her gently back in. Defying all expectations, she continued snoozing away. She was so asleep, I drove around for an extra ten minutes to give her a few more peaceful moments before getting back to the house. After all, it’s why we were out driving in the first place: to fall asleep.

Pacing the parking lot, covered in spit up, pressing that tiny, sad, naked baby to my chest while it was ninety degrees out…maybe I’m just in a daze right now, but none of it was so bad. This particular event wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t traumatizing either. It was just life.

We got home and Lucy slept through the night.