WE ALL HAVE A THROW-UP STORY.

I knew I crossed the threshold of motherhood when my baby threw up on me in public.

It happened at Old Navy.

Poor baby was choking on a tag she was gnawing at, and while I frantically tried the Heimlich, she managed to throw up the half-eaten thing.

I was so relieved when she stopped choking that when she threw up all over me, the clothes, herself, my purse, the floor, and the racks of clothes--I actually smiled because she didn't die.

Then the adrenalin wore off . . . and I realized my hair, my skin, my bra, my shirt, my jeans, and my shoes were caked with the result of her coking . . . yum.

I stood there in the middle of the store not knowing what to do.

"Um, help??"

Long story short, no one came to help so I left. I couldn't even put my seat belt on because I was so disgusting.

And a cop pulled behind me of all days.

He must have seen how nasty I looked through the window, because he didn't pull me over--lucky for him.

And because I don't want to make YOU throw-up, I'll forgo showing you pictures of this instance (not that I even have any; this is a memory only to be remembered by the written word).

I do feel proud to have crossed the threshold, and I'm sure there is more where that came from.

Photo of the Day: Soap. In honor of a good wash after another day of motherhood comes to a close.