snot, pink eye and Christmas-colored vomit pictured. Not for the faint of heart.
'Twas about 3 AM this morning and I had just finished nursing Phoebe. She sighed her little sigh and turned onto her back. I sighed, turned over, and heard a sound not unlike Mount Vesuvius. Even from the light of the bathroom I could make out the geyser of puke coming out of her mouth.
Scott wakes up, dancing like a Ninja on fire and yelling, "What happened? What happened?" I informed him that Phoebe threw up and was, in fact, still puking.
GET THE PUKE BUCKET!!! He screams, running somewhere but not sure where. Scott's affinity for the puke bucket in times of child chunk-blowing is hysterical. There can be a toilet 8 feet away, but somehow the puke bucket somewhere in the kitchen is more enticing. Maybe because it's sort of playing hard-to-get?
Scott spends a few five-minute increments in the laundry room piling things into the wash, and I smell the scent of bleach wafting up through the rafters. The man is nothing if not OCD about germs. To his endearing credit, he never gets sick.
This morning Lucy comes running into our bedroom. "MY EYE WON'T OPEN!" She shrieks, and now she is the one dancing around like a ninja on fire.
I give her some pink eye medicine, and we go on about our day.
Later, Lucy and Asher bounce around on the couch and Lucy loses her front tooth in the cushion. Now she's freaking our about that, so I do what any forward-thinking mother would do... Get out the favorite game of my grandparents when they were biding long winter nights on the barren North Dakota prairie (or a regular farm), Rummikub... the "fast-moving and action-packed tile game". Or at least that's what the box says.
Asher is excited to play and starts to say, "I need to" but he doesn't finish the sentence because this happens:
When they say "you're having a baby! Here's what you need to know!" They don't talk about days like these...
Still, I will always remember when Lucy was 11 months old and got the most horrible case of Rotavirus ever. She puked all over Scott's new shoes.
Somehow I think Rummikub will always remind me of my happy little son posturing for his next great move until the vomit makes him sad.
Somehow I think I'll miss these days, and the husband doing the dancing Ninja while yelling about vomit bins.
This really is the in-between stuff, no?
It's still good.