Page 67 of Heart of Stone

Pink.

Pinkeverywhere.

The strawberry milk she'd insisted on having at the hospital cafeteria decorates her car seat, her clothes, and somehow manages to splash across both her sister and Adam.

For a moment, we all just stare at the carnage. Then Abby starts to scream, which sets off Adam.

“Ew! Ew! Ewwwwww!” Abby screams, holding her vomit covered shirt out.

Amy looks at me with huge eyes and says, "Oopsie."

The smell hits me a second later, a rancid scent of curled milk mixed with fries.

I gag, as Amy leans forward in her car seat and vomits all over the floor once more.

Galvanised into action, I leap out of the car, racing around to throw open Amy’s door and haul her out.

The belt is slippery with vomit, and I find myself struggling to hit the button as Abby and Adam wail, and Amy stares up at me with big, sorrowful eyes.

I can't help it. I start laughing.

Maybe it's hysteria, maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact I’m standing in my driveway at midnight, covered in pink vomit while music talking about being in the club and getting nasty thumps from across the street.

Either way, the entire situation strikes me as hilarious.

The kids stop crying–seemingly startled by my breakdown.

Don’t worry, I am too.

"Wawy?" Amy's lower lip trembles.

"It's okay, baby." I wipe tears—from laughter or stress, I'm not sure—from my eyes. "Sometimes tummies do funny things."

"Pink," Abby points out helpfully between coughs.

"Very pink," I agree, surveying the damage. Three kids, two car seats and a capsule, plus the car to clean up. By myself.

Perfect.

"More tummy," Amy announces, her expression panicked.

"Oh no?—"

This time the pink milk hits my face and slides down my chest.

What kind of karma did I accrue in a previous life to deserve this?

"Inside," I declare, finally managing to unbuckle her car seat. "Everyone inside before anything else turns pink."

We make it halfway to the door before Adam spits up in solidarity with his sister.

I guess the family that sprays together, stays together.

It takes an hour to get everyone bathed and settled. An hour of tears, negotiations, and promises of a better tomorrow. Even Adam fights sleep, his tiny body wracked with hiccups from his crying jag.

Finally,finally, they're all clean and sleeping.

I strip the car seats, piling the covers into the washer before heading out to tackle the car itself. The night air is thick withhumidity, and music still pounds from across the street as I dig through my cleaning supplies.