Picture an elementary school gym, packed for an awards ceremony. I stand proudly in the back, GERD-girl in sling (she had already soaked us both in spit up in the two minutes it took to traipse from car to afrorementioned gymnasium), three year old hanging from my right arm, climbing my leg to do flips. The climbing and flipping were less disturbing to others than the stealing-of-other-kids' (and one adult's) chairs that she was doing earlier, so I was content to pat and dab puking baby with my left hand and control a flipping tasmanian devil with my right.
Smiling, I manage to shoot thumbs-ups and happy nods as my eight-year-old is called to the front SIX times to collect her awards. No other child's name is called more than once, so I'm already garnering a little more attention than I'd like - yet I have to admit that the misplaced My-Child-Is-An-Honor-Student-At-_______-type smug glow is creeping up.
The awards ceremony concludes. The students gather themselves to exit the gym as the parents wait. I release Bayba's hand to hold a cloth diaper over the front of the baby so that her projectile vomit won't land on anyone around us.
And then a siren scares the living daylights out of everyone in the gym.
Holding the be-slinged baby tight against my body, I dive for the media cart where a BULLHORN is flashing red lights and blaring an alarm. Somehow I find the switch Bayba had turned and turned it off. Blushing like crazy, I laugh with the parents who are chuckling sympathetically and hurry past those who aren't as I usher my dynamatrix out the door.