It's Just Not Friday Until You've Stood Knee-Deep In Toddler Puke

Today did not turn out as planned.

After a week of mild running-around. I was so looking forward to Friday, and a break from the insanity. Firstborn's kindergarten class is a full day every other day and he had today off, so there was no lunch to be made and no bus to be caught. Rosemary's Baby just has nursery school on Wednesday mornings, so he had nowhere to be. I'd picked up a few necessities at the teeny-tiny small-town overpriced grocery store down the road, so I didn't need to make any day-long trips into Booming Metropolis with kids in tow. And we had leftover pancakes from the weekend still in the freezer, so I anticipated a "cooked" breakfast without any actual cooking having to be done.

And then reality happened.

I made it to bed at a decent hour last night, exhausted from the last few days, but looking forward to a good night's sleep and a lazy morning. Knowing I don't have to set the alarm sometimes justifies staying up well past my bedtime watching trashy TV or reading an even trashier novel, but I didn't do that last night and for this I am thankful. Because at 6AM sharp, I heard little footsteps coming down the hall, and I knew that, regardless of how dark it still was outside, I was done sleeping.

Firstborn used to get into bed with us from time to time, but he only ever wanted to get in between us and go to sleep. Rosemary's Baby is not that kind of kid. When he gets into bed with you, he wants to have a noisy and animated conversation, then do a little jumping. I think they call that "hyperactivity". But this morning was different. He climbed into bed and wanted to snuggle, and I thought this was a pleasant surprise.

Until the smell hit me.

At first I couldn't identify it. Diaper? Not quite gross enough. So, what could it be? I fumbled for the light and put my other hand out toward Rosemary's Baby's pyjama shirt. Wet and sticky. And then I realized what I was dealing with: vomit.

The poor kid has picked up something evil at nursery school, as they always do. Between his sheets from this morning and the numerous pairs of pyjamas I've had to change him into throughout the day(I've literally lost count of how many times he's thrown up on himself), I've had two extra loads of laundry to do today.

But what has bothered me most about all of this is how drastically a little bug can change the behaviour of a three year-old. The child who has to be stopped after his fourth bowl of rice crispies most mornings has eaten exactly one handful of dry cheerios all day and can keep down nothing but the three freezies he's sucked on listlessly while halfheartedly watching Thomas. He's gotten into nothing he shouldn't and he hasn't once made his brother cry or the dogs run away in terror. THIS IS NOT MY KID!

But, lethargic or not, a sick kid is twice as exhausting as a healthy one. I can't believe I'm saying it, but I'm ready to see him destroying the Captain's plants again, pouring things into the TV set to see what will happen, and using the treadmill as his own personal jungle gym. I'm hoping after a good night's sleep my little monkey will be back to his energetic, today's-the-day-I-burn-down-the-house self. I long to see him raiding the fridge and emptying the bookshelves.

After all, what's life without a little insanity?