I also want to let you know that I had every intention of, uh, actually PARTICIPATING in the discussion taking place in the comments myself, but you know, best-laid plans, blah blah, blah, someone throws up in your mouth instead.
I'm going to have to back up, I suppose.
My daughter was stricken with a combination ear infection/croup/barf disaster, which monopolized much of my time during the past few days, as well as my cleaning products. She's been miserable, and the doctor prescribed prednisone for the croup, a medication that a number of people have since warned me about. I had been thinking -- because it was a steroid -- she'd simply develop superhuman anvil-lifting strength, but no, apparently it just makes you irritable, wild, sleepless and perpetually hungry. Awesome, because it has always been my dream to wrangle with a teen werewolf trapped in a toddler's body.
Now, I had mentioned on Twitter that somewhere in all this, she actually barfed in my mouth. IN MY MOUTH, YOU GUYS. I generally feel like there are few surprises left in the toddler-rearing milieu after two kids, but man alive, she proved me wrong. I...I had not expected that. A number of people have asked me to explain, how, exactly, this happened, and I realized that the only way -- barring an I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant-esque video reenactment -- was through an illustrated layout of events.
Part 1: Lo was curled in the crook of my arm we snuggled on the bed somewhere around 1 AM on Friday evening. It was then that I asked a fateful question:
Part 2: Still lying on my back, I lifted her up, and as I was attempting to transfer her to my shoulder, talking to her with my mouth open (as is, you know, my habit when talking) this happened:
Part 3: Then I died. By "died" I mean "laughed, because really, what are you supposed to do when there is someone else's barf in your hair, down your shirt, and oh yes, did I mention your mouth?"
(a) an unintentional partial reeneactment of, uhhhhh, Dos Chicas, Una Taza;
(b) probably (totally) an actual fetish.
(c) really, really super gross.
Part 5: I cleaned up myself and J cleaned up Lo, both of us still laughing, because the situation was just so very awful that it had actually turned the corner into becoming life-threateningly hilarious. And while it was icky, we knew right away that this will be one of those stories we'll still be sharing when she's 30, laughing our asses off as we tell it, and there has to be SOMEthing sweet about that. (Even if J will likely never kiss me ever again.)