It was a rough day full of clumsy, bad parenting. Some days are steak, some are macaroni and cheese. Today was more like beans and rice.
At the end of our rough day, I got everyone ready for an on-time bedtime, thinking that would help “reset” us all. Everyone was all tucked in; I was singing to my baby girl.
Then she barfed on me.
We went to the bathroom to clean things up, and then it happened for the second and third time. Now vomit stretched across the bathroom floor. It was lovely.
I ran water to give her a bath and got her all settled. She was happily playing, enjoying her bedtime stall. Suddenly, the bathroom door popped open and in flew her big brother, age five. He was curious as to why we were taking a bath in what was, to him, the middle of the night.
He made quite an entrance – surfing on a pathway of vomit, wiping out. He stood up. His sister’s dinner covered his back. Into the tub he went.
The perfect end to the perfect day. (Insert sarcasm here.)
Actually, he came to me a while later, still unable to sleep from the excitement. I asked him if it had hurt at all when he had fallen. He said it hadn’t.
Then we looked at each other and burst into laughter.
It actually was a good end to a bad day, kind of like a cookie at the end of a bad meal.
But no one here wants cookies. Too many have been tossed.