My Worst Nightmare

My worst nightmare has come true.  Evan vomited and shat at the same time.  Ok, my worst nightmare is that I would do it, which was never a possibility until my mom shared her labor experiences with me about enemas and such during that precious birds and the bees talk.  Mom knew how to keep her daughter locked tighter than a charity belt.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Evan had underwear on, but since he woke me up at a God-awful-early-hour to read to him as he took his morning dump.  Then I debated walking into the next room to get him underwear or walk into the next room and try to catch another 15 minutes of sleep.  I chose poorly.

Clean up wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t already fighting to keep the contents of breakfast in my stomach where they belonged.  Like I needed to clean a bigger mess.  Obviously the lack of sleep and the fumes of cleaning products was getting to me because I wistfully thought how if my husband was here he would clean it up.  Commence rolling eyes now.  Like he ever picked up vomit or shit.  Remember when the grossest thing he ever saw was Evan’s poop in the potty.  Yeah.  Of course, I did mourn the fact that my parents AND my grandma AND the favorite uncle are all out-of-town, and I really need to get us to the grocery store.  But let’s all remember I pulled this stuff off all the time ALONE in California. 

Man, I’m spoiled.

Now that things are cleaned up.  Maybe things will go my way, and I can get the boys to clean up the toys.  And maybe things will really go my way, and we can go grocery shopping.  And I can’t help but remember a time when things went my way because I got to sleep in or got a bonus check or got to go to my favorite restaurant or bought a new book.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.