It was a weekday morning, and I was already running late, caffeinated only by a Sun Drop and a honey bun. I had on a button-up shirt and tie, dressed for work. And our car? Freshly detailed. That’s important.

Before heading to school, I had to drop off my son at the babysitter’s. We were ten minutes into the winding road route when he said it.

“My stomach hurts.”

You learn to decipher tone as a parent. This wasn’t a whiny-I'm-bored voice. This was a warning siren. A mayday call. So I started glancing back in the rearview mirror, asking questions. Then he said the words I feared most:

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Cue panic. Not because he was sick. No, No, No. Because I had just dropped good money getting this car vacuumed, shampooed, and Febrezed into perfection. I pulled over to the side of the road like I was in a NASCAR pit stop, flung my door open, and raced to unbuckle him.

Only the car seat buckle didn’t cooperate. Of course it didn’t. Because car seats are designed by people who’ve never been in a crisis.

Then I saw the face. Brighton’s eyes glazed, mouth twitching, body convulsing like a warning strobe. His cheeks puffing in and out. We were seconds away.

So I did what any loving, mildly unhinged father would do.

I cupped my hands, and said, “Go ahead.” He looked at me like I was crazy, but he proceeded to get sick, little by little.

I caught it. All of it. I was baling vomit like I was trying to keep our lifeboat afloat in shark-infested waters. A little got on my sleeves. Some on my shoe. But the car? Untouched. Spotless. Glorious.

When it was all over, my son looked at me with watery eyes and said:

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

And with the calm of a man rethinking every decision in his life, I wiped my hands on my pants because why not and finished them off with his diaper wipes, looked him in the eye, and said:

“It’s okay, buddy. I’m not mad.”

I turned the car around, drove home, changed clothes, and showed up late to work. Still wearing a tie, but spiritually unbuttoned.

Parenting isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t come with medals or hazard pay. But sometimes, when your kid's world is spinning, your job is to steady the ship—even if it means using your bare hands.

As always, remember you can only control yourself. You certainly cannot control the stomach of a toddler nor its timing.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit by Maury Wood! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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Hands-On Parenting (Like, Literally)