I went to bed kind of late last night and was awoken after perhaps an hour of sleep by a little voice calling, "Mommy, my tummy hurts."
I think you can guess what's coming next. But at 2:15 in the morning, I didn't have a clue. Even though the Bunster has been recovering from the flu.
So I staggered down the hall, scooped him out of bed, and initiated soothing Mommy conversation #12: "Tell Mommy Where It Hurts." And some little lizard brain thing started propelling me away from the bed and slowly toward the door as he said "Right here" while pointing at his abdomen. "Do you think you're going to throw up?" I asked. "No," he said, snuggling closer and burrowing his head against my shoulder. And then he vomited in my hair and down my back. Plus a little on the rug and a miniscule amount on the hall floor, which is wood and easy to clean.
God, I love parenting!
I have so much more sympathy now for all the hurled-upon teens that Steve draws.
So...J got a towel and I stood on it to strip off all the barfy pajamas. I wrapped up my hair in a beyond-gross barf-bun, and then washed up the Bunster and strategic bits of myself while J cleaned the hall. J took the Bunster and got him into dry pjs and snuggled him in our bed while I scrubbed the rug. Then we tucked the Bunster back into his own bed, where he slept peacefully. I rinsed off everything that needed it and J tossed the load of wash into the machine. Then I took a shower and scrubbed my hair. A lot.
After this flurry of activity, we finally got back to sleep at 4 am.
This morning, the Bunster was fresh as a daisy and none the worse for wear and every other cliché along those lines. And J and I looked like we'd had the flu for a week and might not get over it anytime soon. We brewed a giant pot of coffee. It helped a little.