Last night was not a good night for Alexander, with wake up calls for me at 2:30, 3:30, and 6:00 prior to everyone else getting up between 7:00 and 7:30 (after going to bed at midnight). That alone would have left me feeling rather exhausted this morning, but then we get to add into the mix Zoë, who woke us up around 5:00 this morning when she burst into our room, sobbing, to tell us that she had thrown up.
Andrew rolled out of bed and headed to her room to survey the scene.
I'm going to be honest here. Although Andrew has changed a number of diapers over the past decade, diaper duty has largely fallen on my shoulders. I have dealt with a lot of poop-splosions in my time. Andrew's dealt with a fair number himself but if we were to tally up who changed more dirty diapers, I would win, hands down.
That said, he's really stepped up to the plate when it comes to older kid...'splosions.
If he's home and someone vomits (or has a potty accident (as Benjamin did a couple of nights ago and it was terribly, terribly disgusting)), Andrew is usually pretty quick to jump in there with his sleeves rolled up, ready to get to work. Not that I haven't dealt with vomit or big kid accidents (because I definitely have), just that if Andrew is home he will always jump in to take care of things (which I super appreciate because...ew).
I slithered away from a finally-sound-asleep Alexander and went to check on Zoë in the bathroom. She was dutifully standing by the toilet, still sniffling and somewhat dazed.
"Do you feel like you're going to throw up again?" I asked.
"No," she sniffed.
"Shall we clean you up then? Let's see..."
Her pyjamas were rumpled, but completely dry. She had some wild bed-head going on but her hair was 100% vomit-free. Her face was perfectly clean.
"Zoë, where did you throw up?" I asked.
"I don't know!" she wailed. "But when I woke up my cheek was wet!"
Huh.
I left her to finish washing up in the bathroom and wandered over to her bedroom, looking for a puddle of vomit on the way. Nothing.
I paused at her doorway, waiting for the putrid smell of vomit to waft out of the bedroom. Nothing.
Andrew was standing in the kids' room more or less scratching his head by this time.
"I can't find a thing," he said. "Everything in her bed is dry."
"You know, I think..." I began as I pieced everything together.
We checked her bed again and, indeed, found a damp spot about the size of a quarter on her pillow—she had been drooling!
Andrew rolled out of bed and headed to her room to survey the scene.
*****
I'm going to be honest here. Although Andrew has changed a number of diapers over the past decade, diaper duty has largely fallen on my shoulders. I have dealt with a lot of poop-splosions in my time. Andrew's dealt with a fair number himself but if we were to tally up who changed more dirty diapers, I would win, hands down.
That said, he's really stepped up to the plate when it comes to older kid...'splosions.
If he's home and someone vomits (or has a potty accident (as Benjamin did a couple of nights ago and it was terribly, terribly disgusting)), Andrew is usually pretty quick to jump in there with his sleeves rolled up, ready to get to work. Not that I haven't dealt with vomit or big kid accidents (because I definitely have), just that if Andrew is home he will always jump in to take care of things (which I super appreciate because...ew).
*****
I slithered away from a finally-sound-asleep Alexander and went to check on Zoë in the bathroom. She was dutifully standing by the toilet, still sniffling and somewhat dazed.
"Do you feel like you're going to throw up again?" I asked.
"No," she sniffed.
"Shall we clean you up then? Let's see..."
Her pyjamas were rumpled, but completely dry. She had some wild bed-head going on but her hair was 100% vomit-free. Her face was perfectly clean.
"Zoë, where did you throw up?" I asked.
"I don't know!" she wailed. "But when I woke up my cheek was wet!"
Huh.
I left her to finish washing up in the bathroom and wandered over to her bedroom, looking for a puddle of vomit on the way. Nothing.
I paused at her doorway, waiting for the putrid smell of vomit to waft out of the bedroom. Nothing.
Andrew was standing in the kids' room more or less scratching his head by this time.
"I can't find a thing," he said. "Everything in her bed is dry."
"You know, I think..." I began as I pieced everything together.
We checked her bed again and, indeed, found a damp spot about the size of a quarter on her pillow—she had been drooling!
Hahahaha
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