Technicalogical Difficulties

So I had this whole post planned for today, but this whole post centered around some photos I took with my real camera (I know, fancy, right?) instead of my phone, and thus everything depended on getting those photos off the real camera and I have now spent two! hours! looking for my memory card reader and then 20! minutes! trying every USB cable in the house, and yet the photos remain solidly, irrevocably trapped on the memory card because this is what happens when I try to like, not do things half-assed like usual. Lesson: NEVER TRY. AIM LOW. 

I'm telling you all this because I feel like I should at least earn partial credit. 

Anyway, here are some pictures I took with my phone.

And you know I have a good dozen more semi-identical photos of him sitting here in that same spot, making variations on the same two faces, so I would just count your lucky stars that I didn't post them all and move along. There is nothing to see here.

(DEAR MEMORY CARD READER STOP RUINING EVERYTHING WHAT THE HELL I JUST SAW YOU YESTERDAY COME BACK PLEASE)

(DEAR AMAZON KINDLE GOOD NEWS I FOUND YOUR POWER CORD SO NOW IF I COULD JUST REMEMBER WHERE I LEFT YOU WE'LL BE GOOD TO GO)

(DEAR A/C ADAPTOR OF MYSTERY PLEASE GIVE ME A HINT BECAUSE I'M TOO AFRAID TO THROW YOU OUT)

(DEAR SELF STOP YELLING AT YOUR ELECTRONICS THEY DON'T HAVE EARS)

Well Bless Our Hearts

Our cat used to try to get into our kitchen cabinets, but was sadly not quite smart enough to succeed. He'd hook a paw around the edge of the door, open it a few inches and then -- seeing the opening and getting overly excited -- put his paw down and start walking towards the opening. Which would vanish. Right as his head thwacked into the newly closed door. Over and over, he would repeat this while we listened to the telltale double-thump of door-head, door-head from the living room, shaking our own smarty-pants human heads sadly. Our Boy, He Is Just Not Very Bright.

I thought eventually he might figure out how to stop the door from closing by propping it with his head BEFORE putting his paw down, but he never did. He just stopped trying. Fucking cabinets, how do they work? 

***

Today while I was getting dressed, Ike scooted gleefully around my bedroom -- his army-trench-crawl has gotten wicked fast, but he refuses to improve his form and move on to "real" hands-and-knees crawling. So he spends hours propelling himself around on his belly, usually with one of Jason's socks or some toilet paper stuck underneath him. Which is very dignified. As you can imagine. We of course intervene. Eventually.

He managed to get into the bathroom and push the door shut. This angered him. Greatly! Of course he had no idea how to open the door, and couldn't do much beyond sort of grab at it and either push it more closed or pull on it until it hit him in the face and ARGH THIS IS ALL THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT I WANT. 

The problem was, though, that I couldn't quite figure out what to either. I couldn't open the door without hitting him; I couldn't reach in far enough to push him backwards without hurting him since he was planted right next to the sink cabinet; I couldn't just say, "Hey, brainiac, you gotta back up a few inches. Because hinges. Objects in space. The airspeed velocity of unladen swallows." 

And so we battled at an impasse for what felt like an embarrassing, nervewracking length of time. Every time I managed to get my hand through the door and gently nudge him backwards, he hurled himself forward at the door with renewed rage, slamming it shut on my arm. Every time I tried to force the door open, he would move his head into the exact right position to get whacked with the corner of it. All the while I'm pleading with him to calm down and back up, BACK UP, like the English language was going to get us anywhere. 

Anyway, TL;DR, I eventually got the door open and retrieved my baby from the bathroom floor unscathed, but exceedingly dusty.

I felt kind of bad for immediately thinking of the mentally challenged cat vs. kitchen cabinet story, but to be fair, I'm still not entirely sure which one of us necessarily represents the cat in this new-and-improved version, you know?

The Ultimate Master List: PLAGUE & PESTILENCE EDITION

Previously: The Ultimate Master List Of Every Baby-Related Thing I Like & Recommend Except For All The Things I Probably Forgot To Mention

So. I hate to break it to you, but it turns out there's a hell of a lot more to parenthood than onesies and strollers and debates over whether the right crib mobile can increase your child's chances at getting into Harvard. And while you might think you can add a first-aid kit and some Infant's Tylenol on your registry and call it a day, the fact is that your child, one day, is going to get sick. Disgustingly, relentlessly sick. 

We've gotten caught woefully unprepared plenty of times -- it happens. We've reached for the Motrin only to discover it expired in 2007. We've cursed at empty post-Tylenol-recall shelves at the drugstore because NOW WHAT. We've stood around Googling rashes and cough sounds in the middle of the night. We've paced the hallways and stared helplessly at the ceiling while our baby wailed because there was just nothing we could do except wait until whatever was wrong with him was over.

You probably will do all that too. And everything will still turn out just fine. 

But in case you'd like to feel somewhat kind-of prepared, or at least would like to bookmark a handy list for frantic Amazon shopping later, here. I made you another list. It's a lot less fun than the last one. Keeping it real blows, man, I know. 

FOR COLDS/FLU/GENERAL ICKINESS:

Crane Cool Mist humidifier

PediaCare Gentle Vapors Vapor-Plug-in & Nightlight

Vicks BabyRub 

BabyComfyNose Nasal Aspirator (way more effective than the hospital freebies)

Boogie Wipes (Unscented) (despite usually being a big skeptic/mocker of the 5,029 different kinds of specialty pre-moistened wipes out there, these saline wipes are UH-MAY-ZING for crusty and over-wiped noses.)

Hyland's Cold Tablets with Zinc 

Chestal Honey Cough Syrup, Boiron Homeopathic (Ezra will take straight tablespoons of honey for his coughs, but Noah refuses. He'll accept this stuff no problem, though. Whatever, child.)

Braun Thermoscan Ear Thermometer (nothing fancy, just a basic thermometer we've had for years and years and used many, many hundreds of times) 

Pediatric dosing charts by weight for Tylenol, Mortin and Benadryl

FOR EAR INFECTIONS:

Earache Drops (Hyland's, Similasan, whatever. Just HAVE SOME HANDY.) (Same goes for pink eye drops.)

Xylitol gum (if your kids are old enough to chew it; Xylichew makes a natural gum without anything artificial.)

Warm compresses

Tylenol (duh)

We have never bought an ear scope and probably never will. Chances are you will know when your baby and/or child has an ear infection just fine without one. If they wake up shrieking and clawing at their ears or head (particularly if they're just getting over a cold), it's an ear infection. Tylenol, drops, warm washcloth. They'll probably be just fine in the morning -- our pede doesn't even want you to bother coming in for an ear check until the second night of screaming (which has only happened to us once, because it was a double-secret-probation infection).

FOR HEAD LICE:

RID (I know, I know. Crazy controversial. Full of terrible chemicals. Doesn't work for a lot of people. It works for us. I use it at the first sight of trouble, then switch to natural products after one initial nuclear blast.)

Nit Free Terminator Lice Comb (Don't even waste your time with anything else. This comb is the bomb.)

Fairy Tales Rosemary Repel Shampoo & Conditioner

JASON Shampoo, Tea Tree Oil

LiceLogic Household Lice Protection Spray (use on mattresses, furniture, car seats, anything that can't be washed or heated in the dryer)

FOR THE HORKOVIRUS OF DOOM:

Top-of-the-line mattress and pillow protectors (we like Protect-A-Bed) 

Emergency Sleeping Bags (a MUST for bunk beds, but also handy for anyone who doesn't feel like changing sheets for the third time in a single night)

Layer of old towels in between mattress protector and sleeping bag for localized-area clean-up

NO WICKER BASKET-TYPE TRASH CANS IN KIDS' ROOMS OH MY GOD

Popsicle Trays

Pedialyte, if liquids aren't staying down for an extended stretch of time; you can also whip up a homebrew batch in a pinch, too. 

Probiotics (we buy whatever powder has children's dosing instructions on it)

Miralax (for if/when things swing in the other direction, especially after your children have eaten three bunches of bananas in a single weekend)

Lysol Disinfecting Wipes  

Bummis Bio-Soft Flushable Diaper Liners 

Bummis Reusable Fleece Liners (the flushable liners catch solids; these fleece ones will protect your diapers and minimize the mess when it's not actually solid enough anymore ewwww I know sorry)

bumGenius Diaper Sprayer (never honestly felt compelled to buy one of these before, but LO I COMPLETELY SEE THE POINT OF THEM NOW, HOLY LITERAL SHIT)

Bac-Out

GrowVia Magic Stick Diaper Ointment (if you're changing diapers and treating diaper rash a dozen times a day, it's super nice keep your hands goop-free in the process)

Earth Mama Angel Baby Angel Baby Bottom Balm (HOWEVER, if you're dealing with a really vicious, painful-looking rash, this is the nicest, richest, soothing-est cloth-diaper-safe ointment I've used) 

FOR YOU:

Zinc, probiotics, handwashing up to the elbow

American Horror Story, Downton Abbey and Absolutely Fabulous on OnDemand

LUSH bath bombs, melts and/or massage bars, who cares, just get in the tub and lock the damn door.

Big House Red wine, in a handy-dandy three-liter "home wine bar," which is fancy-speak for a BIG ASS BOX OF WINE, because SERIOUSLY.

Hormones & My Hair: A Postpartum Update

*peeks head around door*

*eyes room nervously*

*steps inside*

Is it...is it safe? Is everyone...healthy? Can I sit down and relax for a minute without...you know...having to talk about the vomit and the vomiting and the vomiting on top of various surfaces up to and including my own neck? Can I at last possibly maybe change the frigging subject already?

The coast looks clear. For now. Hurry! WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT MY HAIR.

The last time I yammered on about the topic, you may remember, I was going through what I affectionately and accurately described as my Chia Pet period. I was pregnant with Ike and my head had decided to grow a new pelt of wispy stick-out-y hair all over the place. I even illustrated the situation for you. 

The problem miraculously solved itself at some point, right when I stopped paying attention. I'm not sure what happened: Either the short bonus hairs all fell out later in the second trimester, or they grew super-fast and started laying flat and blending in, more or less. By the third trimester, my hair once again achieved its typical pregnancy-induced awesomeness. Indeed, on the day Ike was born, I was sporting a bunch of ugly new sun spots and freckles and no longer had any jawline definition to speak of, but goddammit, my hair looked pretty fabulous.

And then it all fell out. Like ALWAYS, every time. Around six weeks postpartum my hair began to shed with a vengeange and I was soon back to having a head of limp, fine hair that refused to do anything interesting. 

HAIR ONE: What do you want to do today?

HAIR TWO: I dunno, what do you want to do today?

HAIR ONE: I dunno, I asked you first.

HAIR TWO: I dunno, I just want sit here and hang, all flat-like and stuff.

HAIR ONE: Didn't we do that yesterday?

HAIR TWO: Yeah.

HAIR ONE: Okay. So I should tell the blow-dryer and the hot rollers to go fuck themselves, right?

HAIR TWO: Whatever. I'm drunk.

But I was expecting that. It happens. It's annoying and drain-clogging and always lasts juuuuuust up to the point where you start getting vaguely alarmed by how much you're shedding, but then it evens out and you're left with approximately the same amount of hair you had pre-pregnancy.

But after six months or so, I noticed...something. 

There, up around my hairline, was the bizarre return of the Chia Pet hair.

At first I thought it was breakage, but no. After wetting it down and examining it, I am dealing with a perfectly uniform-in-length fresh crop of growth that crosses my entire forehead, my temples, and goes around my ears and across the back of my neck. It's thickest up by my hairline, but if I part my hair on the sides there's a substantial peppering of it there, too. And it all sticks straight up and out so I look like I had an encounter with an electrical socket, or perhaps a weed whacker.

(The longish section in the center is a widow's peak/cowlick thing I've always had, but which also prohibits me from just getting a nice straightforward swath of bangs to cover up the stupid stick-out-y new hair, because it grows completely sideways. So I go for "sideswept" and just hope I don't anger it, because occasionally it does decide to stubbornly go in the opposite direction.)

(Also let's ignore my eyebrows. I'M AWARE. I'M JUST VERY BUSY.)

Will this hair...keep growing? And eventually catch up with the rest of my hair, like (I assume) the first patch of wonky hair did? Will I perhaps keep sprouting new layers of hair every year or so, like a magical everlasting Chia Pet? Or this maybe something breastfeeding-hormone-ish related? (And no, I am not pregnant. NO. DON'T EVEN. I WILL BAN YOUR ASS SO HARD.)

But no matter what, I can blame it on my children, right? Because I can live with pretty much anything as long as I can blame it on my children. 

UPRISING IN DISTRICT 12! WE SHALL NOT BE SILENCED BY TYRANNY OR HAIRSPRAY! WE WILL MAKE YOU WALK AROUND LOOKING LIKE THIS ALL THE DAMN TIME AND YOU WILL SHRUG AND USE IT AS AN EXCUSE TO PUT ON SWEATPANTS. 

Lightweight

So after THAT happened, Ezra was once again knocked back to dietary zero. Liquids only, then small amounts of bland foods, then slightly less small amounts of bland foods, and so on and so forth. 

Ezra was...not pleased. Ezra had other ideas. Ezra found my box of Secret Mommy & Daddy Valentine's Day Cake.

Caaaaake? Chocolate caaaaake? Dis one? Peas tank you welcome? 

The thing is, there was nothing in the world I wanted to give this child MORE than his very own chocolate cake. Look at his little neck! The thinned-out cheeks! His arms are toothpicks and his backbone is knobby! Child, just keep that dinner of white rice down overnight and I swear, I will pump you so full of milkshakes and sticks of butter that even Paula Deen will finally be like, "okay, yeah, even I'm getting a little judgy now, y'all."

Where my Weight Gain 5000 be at?

He cried, of course, when he realized I was serious about No Cake For You, but refused to part with the box for the rest of the night. He sat hugging it on the couch for while, tracing the lovely delicious pictures with his fingers, talking to it, a little bit. SOON, PRECIOUS. SOON.

Last night he ate a meatball with some tomato sauce. He's eaten close to half a carton's worth of scrambled eggs and all the toast in the house. Every once in awhile he still sort of stalls out mid-meal, though, so I'm hesistant to declare him fully recovered. (Also because the Fates are still up there, watching and listening, lightning bolts of plague and pestilence in hand.) 

Pediasure makes me twitchy (especially after the horrible amounts of day-glo artificial Pedialyte I poured down this kid's throat last weekend), so we're slowly trying to amp up the weight gain the old-fashioned way, with food. Peanut butter, whole milk, guacamole, good fatty oils...and all that goddamn hippie crap I drive everybody crazy with. 

But also, yes, I will absolutely make some Secret Valentine's Day Cake for you, Baby. 

His shirt doesn't lie! He could still be a kicker! Special teams, son! DON'T GIVE UP ON THE DREAMS YOUR GYMBOREE HAND-ME-DOWNS HAVE EMBROIDERED ON YOUR BEHALF!

Mother's (Not Even A Significant Chunk of a) Day Out

After finishing up yesterday's entry, I closed the laptop with a flourish, satisfied that it was the last time I would have to discuss anything related to the Great Stampedeing Stomach Illness that had consumed us all for nearly a week. I could, perhaps, finally get around to writing the VERY IMPORTANT entry about my hair that I've been putting off day after day. 

But first, I had some equally important mental-health-related things to take care of. So I stood up and got dressed and put on some makeup and grabbed my purse and Kindle and got the hell out of Gastroenteritis Dodge. 

I drove to a sushi restaurant -- the one that has the tuna dish I like but nothing the kids are willing to eat so we never go there, especially since it's three doors down from a place that serves peanut butter and jelly and Noah KNOWS IT, DON'T YOU DENY HIM THE CHANCE TO ORDER THE SAME DAMN SANDWICH HE EATS EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE, EXCEPT THAT IT COSTS $4.95 AND COMES WITH A SIDE OF FRUIT HE WILL NOT EAT. 

And then...I just...ate the tuna dish I liked. And some soup. I took as long as I wanted. I ordered a glass of wine and surveyed the embarassing backlog of books on my Kindle that I've never gotten around to starting, and then got so engrossed in one that I ordered a second glass of wine just to prolong the experience. 

(That may have been a mistake, as the second glass simply made me extra goopy and emotional and then I started to cry over my book in public like an idiot.)

(And since I know my blog is your one-stop-source for Hot Emerging Literary Trends, lemme tell you: I have a really good feeling about this whole Hunger Games trilogy. I think it might, you know, turn out to be something of a very popular thing! Get in now on the ground floor! Party like it's 2008!)

I decided to skip the planned pedicure because I'd lingered so long at lunch, but I did wander around a CVS for awhile. I bought some hair spray.

Oh, I need to do that again. Even if it's just a cup of overpriced coffee that I could make better myself at home. Even if it's just the pedicure and hitting the drive thru. Even if it's not spending a single dollar but just allowing myself to sit on a bench and read somewhere for as long as I'd like. 

I came home awash in all manner of lame cliched adjectives: I was refreshed, renewed, recharged.

I paid the babysitter (how I love her!), checked in on a napping Ezra and Ike (my precious cherubs! angels straight from heaven!), then met Noah at the bus stop. He greeted me with a huge hug, like always, and we chatted about his day on the walk back.

I was suddenly aware of how glorious the weather was. And since I had already made the mental break from feeling any compulsion to "check in" on the Internet and email hours earlier, I suggested Noah ride his bikes with a neighbor while I sat on the stoop with my Kindle (seriously, they should like, make a movie of this book! I bet it would be v. exciting!). Ike woke up and I brought him outside too. 

I chatted with another neighbor and filled her in on some of the less-graphic details of our week of illness, that the boys were all officially on the mend, and now Jason just needs to recover from his night of misery but after that we're out of the woods. Into the sunshine! The rain is gone! The clouds have lifted and I swear this isn't the wine talking I AM JUST BUZZED ON TWO HOURS OF FREEDOM.

And then we all came back inside and I discovered that Ezra had barfed all over his bed again oh my God in heaven have mercy the end.

Assorted Epilogues

I.

Jason, the last man standing, is down. I repeat, THE HUSBAND IS DOWN. He is by far the least disgusting patient, at least, and his illness has resulted in absolutely nothing I had to clean up.

II.

But! Noah is fine. Ezra is also, finally, oh-thank-God fine and at back at school today.

I don't think I need to tell you that, humor and poor-poor-me snark aside, I was really, really worried about that one. I have never seen any of my children that sick, for which I know I am lucky, because it obviously could have been so, so much worse. He's lost a ton of weight and is still sleeping approximately 18 hours a day, but last night around dinnertime he asked for scrambled eggs and meatballs and macaroni and steak and polenta and cheese and chicken and was basically grabbing anything from the fridge he could get his hands on to eat. A jar of mustard! A pomegranate! Parsley! Whatever!

(Except for what's left of the raspberries. Those are being pointedly ignored.)

Ike is improving but probably needs another day to be back at 100%. I'm still washing a lot of diapers. And if you, like Jason, wonder why in the world I wouldn't cut myself a break and use disposables in the meantime, I will give you the Official Party Line, which is that the disposables equal blowouts and give him a rash.

(That's sort-of the truth. The rest-of-the-way truth is that I seekritly ordered some more diapers and doublers that I absolutely 100% did not need but just plain waaa-aaanted so this allows me to wash and prep them faster all seekritly-like. "What? Those? We've had them for ages, I don't know what you're talking about. Go back to bed. YOU'RE CLEARLY HALLUCINATING.")

III.

No word from the school re: the lice issue. I like to think that they are waiting until they have had time to have an Official Emergency Response Strategery Meeting and can respond with a concrete and satisfying Serious Business Is Serious battle plan, but the more likely reason is that my email read like it was written by a crazy person at the end of her fucking goddamn rope. 

IV.

Last night some animal(s) got into our backyard and attacked a bag of trash we'd left on the patio table. (Stupid, yes. But I have an excuse: Carrying it across the yard to the covered trash receptacle would have required me to put on shoes.) The mess was epic. Wrappers and plastic bags and various bits of grossness were everywhere, and unless I felt like dealing with approximately 1,237,942 requests from Ceiba to go OUTSIDE OUTSIDE OUTSIDE throughout the day so she could eat some Shitty Plastic Wrap^TM remnants, I had no choice but to -- sigh -- clean it up right then. 

So that's how I ended up in the backyard at 7 am this morning, in my pajamas and rainboots, picking up every individual paper towel befouled during the original Raspberryhorkgate 2012, every shop rag and pair of underwear I'd decided was too unspeakable to even deal with laundering, and other assorted disgusting momentos of this weekend. Again. For the second time. That is some next-level, insult-to-injury, Alanis-Morissette-style-irony karmic bullshit, right there. 

V. 

The babysitter offered to stay a couple extra hours today, in case I had any "work" I needed to "catch up on." 

I fibbed and said that yeah, there are a couple things I need to do. And while a lunch out alone, a pedicure and maybe some aimless wandering around the mall aren't exactly "work," at this point I think those things all practically come with a prescription. 

How Bad Was My Weekend

...let me COUNT THE WAYS.

I cleaned vomit off the top bunk.

I cleaned vomit off the bottom bunk.

I cleaned vomit off the bunk bed ladder and the floor.

I cleaned one child's vomit out of the hair of another.

I cleaned up after the world's grossest fucking diaper, BAR NONE.

I cleaned up...the crib. Enough said.

I cleaned vomit off the wall of the nursery, and the rocking chair.

Also my brand-new, dry-clean-only sweater that I was stupidly wearing because that was before reality set in and all hope was shattered into a million disgusting, crusty pieces.

I called the on-call pediatrician to find out if I needed to take my terrifyingly listless, still-unable-to-keep-solids-down-after-72-hours toddler to the ER or not. 

I went to the store for more Pedialyte only to realize I was standing in the stationary aisle, staring at sympathy cards and slowly going mad with fever.

I came home and experienced some...digestive distress. 

I lay in bed and moaned at the ceiling fan while Jason baked the children COOKIES, since Noah was feeling so much better and Ezra...well, Ezra would probably be fine too, right?

I lay in bed and muttered feverish I TOLD YOU SO'S while Jason cleaned vomit off the bottom bunk. Again.

I cleaned up three puddles of cat vomit off my bedroom floor because why the fuck not, you useless lump of hairballs. 

I noticed my six-year-old suddenly scratching his head a lot, because ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.

I composed a pointed email to his school mostly to satisfy my need to tell another adult to DO something already. FIX something. HELP ME with something. I CANNOT SOLVE THE ONGOING KINDERGARTEN LICE SITUATION SINGLE-HANDEDLY OVER HERE, ESPECIALLY BECAUSE WE ARE ALL THE FUCK OUT OF CLEAN SHEETS AND TOWELS.

I treated, combed, shampooed, cleaned, sprayed, laundered, bagged, quarantined and combed again.

I called a different on-call pediatrician to find out if I needed to take my still listless, able-to-keep-some-solids-down-but-now-having-diarrhea-every-30-minutes toddler to the ER. 

I did not take anyone to the ER.

I got better.

Mostly.

Now I just have a really bad cold and a need to make up for about a million hours of sleep.

(But hey! I made the Huffington Post!)

Everybody else got better too.

Mostly.

So far, as of this minute.

It's been a good minute.

I'll take it.  

(Just like I happily took Jason's "I'm Sorry Everything Is Terrible, Go Take A Bath And Let Me Handle Things For Awhile Before You Have A Psychotic Break" gift of Lush and red wine. He really is SUCH a good one, misguided mid-onslaught baking attempts aside.)

 

:(

After a brief turn for the better last night and this morning, we're now back to taking it one sip of Pedialyte at a time over here. Even popsicles are too wild and crazy for this party. And the less said about that banana, the better.

Fuck this week. I'm out. Let's meet up on Monday for a do-over, deal?

Because You're Worth It

Warning: This is probably going to be the grossest thing I have ever written about on the Internet. And I have written some gross fucking things. So, proceed with caution. Or don't. Just leave. Run away! Look out, behind you! It's a compulsive oversharing blogger in her pajamas! OH MY GOD WE'RE DOOMED.

Yesterday afternoon, Ezra shuffled from his room post-nap. "My tummy hurts," he whined. We had a little chat about Poop, Do You Need To Go Do That, and I expertly diagnosed him with Who The Hell Knows, But Let's Try Some Cuddling On The Couch. 

So we cuddled. On the couch. Which is where we were when he suddenly bolted upright and vomited on me. A entire container of raspberries came up in repeated waves of bright reddish-magenta-colored puke all over my chest and lap and then the couch and on the floor as I picked him up and hauled ass towards the bathroom, where it also just. Kept. Coming. Holy. Fucking. SHIT.  

When it was over and the bathroom walls and surfaces were as coated with splattered raspberry hork as we both were, he burst into terrified tears and put his arms out for a hug. 

This is one of the things that you know, logically, going into parenthood, is a distinct and likely possibility. I mean, kids get sick and throw up and when they're little they have no idea what's happening to them, and no instinct to run for the bathroom and barf into the toilet like a civilized person. As a former child yourself, you probably have at least one memory of a truamatic throwing-up event in your bed or on the floor or all over the backseat of the car. 

You probably DON'T, however, have any memory of cleaning up the carnage after the fact, because you didn't fucking have to. No, you got cleaned up and put to bed and left to wallow in your own snuffly misery with a popsicle while your parents dealt with the rest of it, desperately praying to the Clorox gods that they would escape coming down with it themselves. Because even if they do get violently ill they'll STILL have to take care of your helpless ass and cater to your every Saltine-and-Ginger-Ale-related whim.

So I totally had one of those moments of Hideous Soul-Breaking Clarity while peeling off my vomit-soaked clothing and giving us both a bath, while I spread a sheet across the freshly-scrubbed (but still rank-smelling) couch so he could lie down and watch Blue's Clues. I put a trash can next to him (which would be repeatedly ignored and/or missed during the next five or six bouts of vomit that were still to come) and went back to wiping off befouled surfaces that like, did not even MAKE SENSE, from a PHYSICS PERSPECTIVE, because HOW DID HE MANAGE TO VOMIT ON THE UNDERSIDE OF THE SINK COUNTER. 

I meticulously scraped smelly day-glo goo from in between the planks of the hardwoods, all while realizing that 1) no one was going to come help me, and 2) no one was ever going remember that I once did this for them.

And that I would do it again, and let's be honest, probably will. 

And I'm more okay with that than I ever thought I'd be.

P.S. Except for the part when I realized the baby -- who was scooting around on the living room floor during our initial frantic dash to the bathroom -- had something in his mouth and it was part of a raspberry and OH MY GOD THAT PART WAS NOT OKAY AND MADE ME CRY NO NO NO.