Tonight has been eventful. Last night we had a quiet evening of pizza and a Toy Story marathon. Not tonight.
It started with me not feeling well. Not shocking. This pregnancy is kicking my ass so to feel like I "almost have the flu" has been the norm.
So I laid down in bed, Rich graciously said "just relax, I'll take care of Chazzy."
A short while later, I hear murmurs in the hallway of "ooohhhh, you don't feel good, do you, Charlie?" The door opens and Rich says "Mommy, Charlie doesn't feel good either" as he's lifting him into the bed with me.
That's when all hell broke loose.
Charlie threw up. And I don't mean the toddler sort of hiccup-with-some-stomach-bile. I mean frat-boy-just-finished-his-first-beer-bong. And the beer bong won.
My hair, my shirt, both pillows and a 1/3 of our sheets were covered in some sort of sour concoction that I'm quite certain had to do with the ice cream & goldfish Charlie had for dinner.
Naturally, I make it as far as the shower and I have a similar response. But more of the sorority-girl-OMG-he-just-puked-on-me type of response.
So now, 8 pm on Wednesday night, Rich and I are washing sheets and clothes, opening every window of our 1100 square foot home to rid ourselves of the puke smell and giving Charlie flat 7-up.
You know what would be a great idea?! To have more kids.
the pile of laundry
the patient, watching Toy Story for the 372nd time
our sheetless, stinky bed