Sicky-wicky

In the life of every car, there is a moment where the car goes from being a “new” car to a used car. At that moment, you can actually hear the sucking sound of wind as the car begins its rapid descent of depreciation.

The moment is different for every car—it could be your first door ding, or the first chip on your bumper as the gravel truck in front of you rains down tiny rocks on your car.

The moment my car lost its newness was this morning, when Reilly projectile vomited curdled milk all over the backseat of our car. Friends of the internet, I wish that I could properly describe the smell that is now imbedded in the upholstery of the Camry. It is foul.

Many of you are probably thinking, but what about poor Reilly? Who cares about the stupid car when wonderful baby-waby Reilly is sicky-wicky? I’ll have you know that I did not panic or curse when Reilly barfed in the backseat, but rather calmly removed her from the car, soothing her all the way back to the house, where I handed her off to grandma while I quickly returned to the car with towel in hand.

The worst part, and the part I feel truly bad about, was that I had to put her back in the car seat that she had just thrown up in. Yes, I put down a towel, and no, she did not get any additional barf on her. But the stench of the car was almost enough to make my eyes tear up, and I imagine it’s not pleasant to be sitting on the source of that smell.

Ah, the joys of being a parent. There’s just nothing like it.