There’s barf in my hair for the third time tonight. The first two were direct hits. The third was an aftermath rescue. Summoned by croup's hacking gag, I found him drenched and wailing, desperate for solace.

Try as I might, I can’t be stoic. We’re up for the second night of marathon sleeplessness and rocking and shower-running and bed cleaning. He barfs and I blubber. It’s the helplessness, I think. Something’s wrong with him, and I can’t fix it. All I can do to comfort him is smell as vile as he does in solidarity.

This is every mother’s test of mettle: to calm and soothe, be calming and soothing. Yet here I am:  Miss Scarlett, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ bout no barfin’ babies!