Stephanie at Adventures in Babywearing is hosting another contest. This time, we have to post a gross story of mommyhood.
Hmmmm.... Which to choose? Where to begin?
Shall I cover the puke filled bed from headboard to footboard? Or the poop trail from the living room through the kitchen and straight on up the stairs? Or how about the months old personal pan pizza underneath the van seat?
I think I'm gonna go WAY back to a puke story for this one. It's about 2001 or so. Justin couldn't have been more than 2-3 years old, because I was hugely pregnant with my 2nd son. He went to bed on time, as usual (great sleeper!) I remember lying on the couch with my feet up, waiting for Patrick to get home (he worked 2nd shift back then). I heard Justin cough and then whimper and then he was silent a bit. I figured, "a bad dream" and continued waiting for Patrick. He got home and we went to bed.
Woke up the next morning and waited for Justin to call for me as he wouldn't get out of bed until I told him he could (I know! He was SO good.) After waiting a bit, I hear him calling for me but he didn't come when I said to come on out. He just kept calling with a bit of a whimper in his voice. I went into his room and asked what was wrong. He just said something like "I so sorry Mama..." with tears in his eyes.
I still couldn't figure it out (though you would have thought my pregnant nose would have sniffed out the reason faster) until I saw his face and hair were crusted over with.... what?
No. No.... Ewwww....
My poor baby had been sleeping in his own pile of puke ALL NIGHT LONG. And he felt bad about it! I did one of those frozen moments of "oh crap! What do I do first??" And finally decided to just put him into the tub and peel his clothes off in there.
Now, I hate puke. Who doesn't? But I still don't know what is worse: the squishy warmness of fresh vomit or having to chip it off of your child's eyelashes and stuffed animals...
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