Before this week, I’d thought co-sleeping sounded kind of quaint. (I said co-sleeping, not co-puking.) But after having a sick Junior in our bed for the last three nights, all I have to say is this: never, ever again. Junior wanted to sleep on me—on my neck!—like a human scarf. And Chuck put up some kind of heat force field with his body hair that repelled me and Junior to the far corners of the bed. Add two obese cats and about 30 stray socks that have pooled at the bottom of the bed and you’ve got yourself a sit-com.
A really awful sit-com that could probably be used to torture people.
Junior threw up on me seven times over the last four days. Just once on my birthday. I thought that was awfully nice of him.
When we took Junior to his doctor, the doctor put his hand to my forehead and said, “You don’t look good, Mrs. Mullet.” Then he listened to my lungs, looked in my ears and prescribed me an antibiotic. He even gave me a lollipop. If he didn’t wear pilled gym socks and smell like oatmeal, I’d probably have a crush on him.
I haven't been to work since last Thursday. I am going to have serious re-entry issues.
I found out Chuck had planned a surprise 35th birthday party for me on Sunday night. Seeing how I was puked on instead, I’m going to try not to think about that.
I manhandled the Christmas tree as I dismantled it. I don't want to talk about it.
Toddlers emit a low wail right before they upchuck. It reminds me of an animal’s mating call. I’m no zoologist, so I couldn’t tell you what animal, per se, but I do know that if I hear it once more—and if any more snow falls—life is going to play out like a scene from the Shining.
My father stopped by this morning with a birthday bouquet. After listening to Junior wail “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommeeeeeeee” for 10 minutes, he said he had to get going. As he stood at the door he said, “You’d better be careful. You’re going to have to have that kid surgically removed from your side if he gets any more attached.”
See now, if he watched my sit-com, he’d know it’s my neck. It’s my neck, Dad. My kid’s stuck to my neck.
The Un-Mom wants to hear all your Random Thoughts. She told Mrs. Bear so.
