The clock strikes 1:00 am…
I hear The Baby working hard at her favorite pastime, yelling in the middle of the night. She’s so good at it she can do it in her sleep. Literally. The Hubs and I take turns fumbling to her room only to find her yelling, with her eyes still closed, fast asleep. Sometimes she’s on all fours, still asleep. Why does she do it? **Big shrug** Maybe she dropped her ice cream in Dreamland or maybe they told her she was too short for the Cloud Ride. I haven’t the slightest. All I know is that fifty pats on the back later she’s still eating cotton candy while we’re left outside the gate deliriously trying to claw our ways back in.
So, you can see I wasn’t in a rush to witness, yet again, this little trick of hers. Anyway, while patting her I noticed her PJ’s were wet and because she had been battling a cold I figured it was, for a lack of “pretty” words, snot. As I picked her up I realized it was in her hair, too. I rushed in our room to dump her on The Hubs so I could get something to clean her up with. He questioned my snot hypothesis. I’m like, duh, of course that’s what it is. After all, I’ve personally seen this kid produce enough mucus to make Mucinex giddy. I scoffed to myself. Men. They know nothing. As I’m racing back to her room (why I don’t know because I think it would prove hard to clean someone up from another room) he threw his own idea in the mix. “I think she threw up.”
My brain skidded to a stop, but my feet were still speeding along. So, I just went with it. I flicked on the light in her room and sure enough there was a stain in her crib the size of a dinner plate. And the bumper pad sported a matching one. Foul ball! How you throw up and to the left is beyond me. While I’m strategizing my head and scratching a plan—yes, I meant to type that—I hear Hubs yell, “She’s throwing up!” I raced back to our room, grabbed her towel, and hurdled across the bed.
Me: “Hold her over.”
Him: “I can’t, she’s throwing up.”
Me wishing I had a catcher’s mask and frantically shoving the towel under her mouth: “Well, hold her over.”
Him frantically moving her away from the towel: “She’s throwing up.”
Me: “Put her over the towel before she throws up on you.”
Him strapping on his Daddy Armor: “It’s okay, she can throw up on daddy.”
Me rolling my eyes so frigging hard they plopped in the towel and thinking, “What-the-hell-ever”: “You are NOT going to let her throw up on you.”
Needless to say, majority of it landed on him. Let me tell you, The Baby gave it a good fight, too. It was her first time, she decided she didn’t like it, was determined she wasn’t going to do it again, and she was gagging herself trying not to. But, four pukes later she lay exhausted across daddy’s chest clad in nothing but her diaper and a blanket. They stayed this way the entire night (aww…) while I kept a close watch in case back-up was needed. The damage? Her crib sheet, bumper pad, The Hubs, 3 towels, her hair, and 2 sets of PJ’s (one set wasn’t even on her body at the time).
The arena goes crazy. Yay! Daddy slayed the Puke Dragon! He was proud, I was proud he was proud, and The Baby was back to yelling in the middle of the night.
Two days later…
The Hubs hadn’t anticipated one thing. The Puke Dragon had a wife. Not appreciating the death of her husband she attacked mine with a vengeance so violent, Hubs was left sprawled across the bed sweating and begging for mercy. But, X-Mom was waiting with a secret weapon… Lysol. Done and done. I didn’t catch it and so far The Kid appears to be in the clear.
Hmph. Who’s your slayer now?