Last night at 12:30 I woke from a peaceful cozy slumber to the sounds of my seven year old freaking out in her top bunk. She decided to wait for me to get up and tell her to get out of her bed before she attempted to crawl down the ladder. By then, she had puked down the side of the bed (in all the drawers) and had managed to hit the other set of drawers on her way out the door. She then proceeded to puke over the side of the stairs, across the hall, through the bathroom and landed one last projectile pile on the lid of the toilet.
Did I want to kill myself?
You bet your sweet ass I did.
While she was chained to the toilet, I scrubbed. Zoe, who was Wide Freaking Awake by then, helped me by pointing out each and every time I "missed a spot." Thank You Zoe.
By the time I had it all put together and had moved Zoe from the room to finish the night in a puke-free spot, I had my own stomache ache. So I headed downstairs for some couch-time. Guess what I stepped in. My dear sweet daughter had managed to lean over the railing upstairs on her way to the bathroom. Awesome.
I would like to note that I had it all cleaned up and disinfected by 2am. I then proceeded to watch "Ghosts of Girlfriends Past" on HBO. I went back to bed with a stomach ache of my very own at 3:30. "Ghosts of Girlfriends Past" is a dumb movie.
I say, screw environmentally sound cleaning practices. I scrubbed every square inch of hardwood floor with some nasty, toxic, disinfecting crap in the middle of the night. Glad I had it in the house. I threw the towels in the trash. The image of picking puke chunks out of the terry cloth just reminded me that I never liked those stupid blue towels, anyway.
And ya know what? I was supposed to meet Nanny Jo tonight. Like, for real.
How ironic is that.
Over and out--