Remember how in a total mom fail moment I probably got us banned from the New City McDonald’s for life? The puking didn’t stop there, my friends.
Yesterday evening, we got home after rehearsal and dinner, and Cole complained of a tummy ache before bed. Genius that I am, I sent him to sleep equipped with a large plastic bowl.
Apparently, though, using a basin as a vomit receptacle is not an innate skill, as approximately 45 minutes later I heard dinosaur-in-distress noises coming from his room and ran in to find him clutching the bowl *upside down* while his head was turned in the complete opposite direction and sick splashed off the wall, and the few unlucky stuffed animals in the splash zone.
Cue pajama and bedding change #1. The kicker is that he turned to me mid-cleanup in the bathroom and said “good thing I had that bowl, right?” Ummmmmm…
So. Back to bed with subsistence level bedding and only the minimum required lovies in danger’s way, and I headed back to the living room for more Dance Moms. (Sidenote: Am I the only one who completely loves this show? #teamChloe) This unfortunate performance was repeated twice more – until we were on our LAST available set of sheets. (He refused the bowl on the last tuck in because “it’s not helping at all, Mommy.”)
As an added bonus, during his last performance, I heard a garbled shout from my bedroom, where apparently Lulu yacked all over Adam. We are out of fitted sheets, so now there is a flat sheet on our bed covered with a towel in vain hopes of some protection.
You would think that children would be tuckered out after such midnight adventures, but nope! They were both up bright and early before 7 (that’s *early* in our house, Harmony), and are now bouncing off the walls like they’ve never been ill. I’m terrified to leave the house with them ever again.