To Be

Shabbos was drawing to a close. I had coaxed Ben to eat his supper, belting out zemiros to keep him content. I changed him into the new pajamas I had managed to snatch in the madhouse that was Costco, the beautiful shade of blue contrasting with his tanned feet.

The day had been warm and humid, but a pleasant breeze had begun to whisper through the trees, the sun no longer glaring as it slid lower in the sky. I decided to give Ben his pre-bed bottle outside in the fresh air. (He would spend the whole day outdoors if he could.)

The moment was perfect. 

Ben removed the almost-empty bottle from his mouth and emitted an dainty burp. 

I smiled at him adoringly. 

Then there was geyser of white liquid shooting out of him. I was hit! It was followed by his dinner, Greek yogurt, compote, and chia seed pudding, all still very recognizable, but now smelling distinctly of vomit. 

He blinked innocently, while I remained frozen for a few seconds in shock. I was dripping in projectile. 

Han and I then stripped the poor stinking fellow, who seemed oddly unperturbed at losing all his stomach contents. It did not go well when I tried to force some Pedialyte down his throat; he is surprisingly strong for a baby.

I then bundled him into bed, worrying at his refusal to drink, and spent the night tiptoeing in repeatedly to check on his breathing. 

I wondered—it had been a perfect moment. But I couldn't keep that moment? Seriously? The moment had to be literally puked all over? 

I then remembered "Bikeish Yaakov leshev b'shalva." All Yaakov wanted was to live a life of peace. But that's not what this life is about. Peace is for the next world. Here, we must suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

Well, I suppose I could handle a stomach bug.

I called my sister in a panic on Motzei Shabbos; she poo-pooed my worries. And he was bright-eyed by morning, ready for another perfect moment.