Why I Should’ve Earned a New Girl Scout Badge Last Night

Warning: NSFL (not sufficient for lunchtime… or probably any other time for that matter. So, move along, nothing to see here.)

I would do anything for love, or to earn the Ninja Merit Badge (BoyScoutStore.com)


Remember how cool peeing outside was when you got a little stitched “camping” badge at the end? Or how cool going door to door begging for money in the freezing cold in exchange for the respect of the rest of your troop, oh and delicious cookies for your patrons, became when you got little stitched entrepreneurship badge at the end? Girl Scouts made even the most disgusting and boring tasks a little more glamorous because of the end-game, that little stitched badge on your sash.

That fact that Scouts doesn’t continue to give you badges through parenthood is a crying shame.

Just imagine the respect you could command while proudly wearing your mommy sash. It has the potential to completely revolutionize mom-judgement the entire world over!

You would get the cracked nipple badge for breast feeding, the steaming pile of pooh badge the first time you had to deal with a blow out, and the badge I would have earned last night: the up-all-night-drug-free-because-of-puke badge.


We had our first official all-nighter because of sickness, and the up-teenth mom overreaction marathon to accompany.

It started with a very cuddly and lethargic baby. It makes you feel terrible as a parent to like how sweet and good they are when they aren’t feeling well, but that is how they get you. No one warns you when they are being cute, cuddly, and quiet it is merely the first phase of a sneak attack. Following which is a horrific letting loose of whatever disgusting bodily function they have been storing up for hours, possibly days.

The hardest part is, unlike when a friend would puke all over you after a night of drinking in college, you can’t get mad at your little one for doing the exact same thing. For one thing it more than likely has nothing to do with appletinis or Jagerbombs (and if it does your kid is far cooler than mine), and the other is that getting mad at them will not result in a fully paid dry cleaning bill or car detail (and if it does then I would like your kid to come over and teach my kid how to start pulling her weight around here).

Instead, if your like me and this is the first time you have had your sick baby barfing all over your business, you just keep telling them how much you love them over and over because you are convinced that there is something incurably wrong and you are really just a terrible parent for not getting them immediate medical attention. Or maybe in a haze of exhaustion you just make sure you are wearing a robe and pj’s you weren’t particularly attached to while they lay in your arms puking like a Greek rush.

That would be another badge though, the resisting-the-urge-to-rush-your-child-to-the-children’s-hospital-everytime-they-sneeze-the-wrong-way badge. Yea, I earned that schnitz. So, in addition to the not-killing-your-spouse-because-they-are-sick-at-the-same-time-your-baby-is badge, that would make three total badges I should have earned over night. However, Scouts, I did not.

Instead, these milestones will pass with very little commemoration or fan-fare aside from gag-inducing dirty laundry, a sadly depleted coffee supply, and a more intimate relationship with the infomercial folks (whom I will thank later when I have a mansion on the beach and a fleet of sports cars because of their proven money-making methods).

Make Sure You Can Decrypt Before You Encrypt

Usually around mid-week the Mister and I coordinate our schedules to make sure there are no surprises when the weekend hits. But even with that effort there usually is something that one or the other forgot to relay, so the phone call ends up with each of us trying to recount every conversation over the past week to see if the other really, truly told us the event they just “sprung”, or if they have just merely convinced themselves that they shared it.

Yesterday we were chatting and he’s all, “What’s going on the 25th? I have this big red box drawn around the day, but I can’t think of anything we have going on.” I sat there for a second, wondering if I should really answer. Was this a test of my vanity?

Finally, I asked, “Are you serious?” He’s all, “Yeah, I know you’re leaving for Blissdom the next day, but I can’t figure out if I drew that box to remind me to get ready for your trip, or what it means.”

“Well, the 25th is my birthday…”

A mixture of uncomfortable laughter and silence on his end, followed by, “No there must be something else.”

“Nope, nothing.”

Long silence again.

“You know this doesn’t count because I can’t technically forget your birthday before it even happens.”

“Dude, I think you just did. If it makes you feel any better I called Boggie our dog’s name three times during Little Gym today.”

So I ask you, dear readers, how likely is it that our baby is actually a brain eating zombie who is feeding while we sleep? I ask because I am pretty sure we used to remember these things before she was born, therefore she be responsible in some way for the forgetfulness. Once you have established that, the only logical conclusion that can be drawn is zombies, because when it has to do with brains it can always be traced back to zombies.

Therefore, she must be a zombie and just really good at hiding it.