It's Mother's Day. Of Course it is.
Mother's Day. The day when moms everywhere sleep in, ignore all child related emergencies and generally shirk any and all responsibilities. Riiiiiight.
My Mother's Day started in a rather dramatic fashion this morning. At six a.m. I heard Beebs crying for me. My immediate thought was that he'd peed the bed because he'd come home late last night from camping, fast asleep in daddy's arms. We put him to bed as-is without changing his clothes, taking off his coat or making him go potty. It didn't matter that he smelled like a campfire covered in dirt and volcanic ash (which he'd been playing in non-stop for two days) we just threw him in bed and opted to hose him off in the morning before church. So I really wasn't surprised when I heard him calling me.
However, as I approached his bed in the dim morning light, I smelled the vomit.
Again?
And here I thought we were past all that. I mean I've only been swimming in puke for about two weeks.
So I sent Beebs into the bathroom and started stripping sheets and blankets and peeling soiled clothes off the miserable little sick boy. Twenty minutes, new bedding and a set of new PJs later, Beebs is tucked back into bed with a towel and a mixing bowl - with strict instructions to USE IT - and I'm crawling back into my covers. No sooner did I close my eyes than I hear my name again, this time from right outside my door.
"Mommy, I nee a new shirt."
It's Doobie. He's soaked.
Daddy had just gotten up and was standing a good distance from his foul smelling offspring. He pointed to Doobie with the standard grossed out daddy expression. You know, the one that means: DO SOMETHING!
"Did you get sick too?" I hurried over to Doobie before he could touch anything and assessed the situation.
No chunks.
Just a massive FAIL on the diaper situation. He's coated in urine. Which, honestly, is only a slight improvement to being coated in vomit.
I left Doobie in the capable hands of his daddy and rushed downstairs for some clean and dry pajamas. When I came back upstairs I found Doobie shivering in the hallway and daddy curled back up in bed.
Seriously?
I managed (all by myself!) to get Doobie stripped down, baby-wiped off, redressed and back in bed.
Happy Mother's Day.
My Mother's Day started in a rather dramatic fashion this morning. At six a.m. I heard Beebs crying for me. My immediate thought was that he'd peed the bed because he'd come home late last night from camping, fast asleep in daddy's arms. We put him to bed as-is without changing his clothes, taking off his coat or making him go potty. It didn't matter that he smelled like a campfire covered in dirt and volcanic ash (which he'd been playing in non-stop for two days) we just threw him in bed and opted to hose him off in the morning before church. So I really wasn't surprised when I heard him calling me.
However, as I approached his bed in the dim morning light, I smelled the vomit.
Again?
And here I thought we were past all that. I mean I've only been swimming in puke for about two weeks.
So I sent Beebs into the bathroom and started stripping sheets and blankets and peeling soiled clothes off the miserable little sick boy. Twenty minutes, new bedding and a set of new PJs later, Beebs is tucked back into bed with a towel and a mixing bowl - with strict instructions to USE IT - and I'm crawling back into my covers. No sooner did I close my eyes than I hear my name again, this time from right outside my door.
"Mommy, I nee a new shirt."
It's Doobie. He's soaked.
Daddy had just gotten up and was standing a good distance from his foul smelling offspring. He pointed to Doobie with the standard grossed out daddy expression. You know, the one that means: DO SOMETHING!
"Did you get sick too?" I hurried over to Doobie before he could touch anything and assessed the situation.
No chunks.
Just a massive FAIL on the diaper situation. He's coated in urine. Which, honestly, is only a slight improvement to being coated in vomit.
I left Doobie in the capable hands of his daddy and rushed downstairs for some clean and dry pajamas. When I came back upstairs I found Doobie shivering in the hallway and daddy curled back up in bed.
Seriously?
I managed (all by myself!) to get Doobie stripped down, baby-wiped off, redressed and back in bed.
Happy Mother's Day.