Dream Weaver

I dream rather frequently. Usually, they are quite vivid and I am able to remember them when I wake up. There hasn't been any dream quite so life-changing as Stephenie Meyer's visions of a glittery vampire in  meadow, but still, quite interesting. And I've noticed a recurring theme: bathrooms.

No matter where the dream may start, I seem to end up in a bathroom of some sort. A dream about being a teacher landed me in the boys' bathroom of my elementary school. An Olympics setting oddly included facilities with commodes resembling dentist chairs. Another dream had very long, narrow stalls with walls that were only waist high, while seated. That made for awkward conversations with the other patrons.

The other night, I had a dream where zombies invaded my neighborhood. After whacking a few neighbors and friends who craved my brains, I sought refuge with other survivors in a secure house. Since room was scarce, I slept on a pool float in the hot tub. And the bathroom? It was scarily similar to the set of "Deal or No Deal," but with toilets instead of briefcases. So maybe it should be called "Pee or No Pee." There was even a model for pets. (Unfortunately, if zombies really did knock on the door, our dog would be the first to greet them.)

Since bedwetting hasn't been an issue for several years, I don't think it is my bladder trying to get my attention. So I turned to the prominent source for dream analysis: the internet. Here's a quote from dreammoods.com:

"To dream that you are in the bathroom relates to your instinctual urges. You may be experiencing some burdens/feelings and need to "relieve yourself". Alternatively, a bathroom symbolizes purification and self-renewal. You need to cleanse yourself, both emotionally and psychologically."

Fair enough. But again, I don't think it's because of my real-life bladder. What alternate insight could this website offer?

"To dream that you are in a public restroom with no stalls or that there are a lot of people around while you are trying to do your business signifies your frustrations about getting enough privacy. You are always putting others ahead of your own needs. As a result, you are lacking a sense of personal space."

I have kids. Of course I have no privacy. And try explaining personal space to a pre-schooler.

"To dream that you can not find the bathroom or that you have difficulties finding one indicates that you have difficulties in releasing and expressing your emotions. You are holding back your true feelings about something."

Now we're getting somewhere! With those same kids running around, even though they are constantly seeking my attention, they don't actually listen to me. Sure, they're looking right at me with vacant expressions but when my mouth ceases to move, they resume whatever it was they were screaming doing.

With a need to release, I turn to my blog to express my dream bladder in the form of runny, pungent words. You are welcome.

Takin' Care of Business

My family enjoys a good camping trip. And although we'd much prefer to camp during an unexpected blizzard (it's called making memories, people!) occasionally, we actually have fun. In fact, camping is very much a part of our summer plans. However, now that it's getting chilly, I'm packing away the gear. While cleaning out a bag, I found this list. My scrawled and shaky notes (possibly written in the car or while on a pit toilet) were supposed to become a blog post but must have gotten lost in the unpacking and showering and de-ticking and trying to get the smell of bug spray out of our cooler.

So here it is for your viewing -- and probably gagging -- enjoyment!

Why Pit Toilets Are The Worst Life Experience Ever Inflicted Upon Civilized Cultures

1. You never want to use them unless you really gotta go. Inevitably, there will be someone in line ahead of you and that someone will take a very, very loooooooooong time.
2. Do I really need to mention the smell? You might pretend it doesn't bother you but really, that's just keeping a brave face in front of the kids, like you do when comforting them after they've puked all over the bathroom, pretending that their vomity breath isn't making you want to hurl.
3. You will inevitably have an audience, although it will be of the insect variety. Once, there was a frog in there with me. I couldn't pee and opted for remote bushes instead. (You're welcome.)
4. The height on these things? Ridiculous! Are the makers prejudiced against short-legged folk? Because picnic tables are the same way…it's pretty embarrassing when your feet don't touch. But because of the height, using a germaphobe's "hover" technique is out of the question. Only option is a full-cheek press.
5. Ain't nothing like that "cool breeze" on your nethers to really keep you focused on the task at hand.
6. Couldn't they at least add some sound proofing? I don't need a "reassuring" echo of my business.
7. You might want to consider bringing your own toilet paper. Sometimes, there are four rolls on the locked metal bar and sometimes, you don't even get a full sheet. Do you really want to take that gamble?
8. Don't. Look. Down. If you're not careful, you could lose your sunglasses or camera or small child. My dad once lost a flashlight. I wonder what that next person thought of that.
9. Maybe it's just me, but somehow, I just don't feel done without a flush. So unsatisfying.
10. No sinks. Seriously. NO SINKS. At least now they're putting in hand sanitizer stations.

Moment in Which I Completely Freak Out and it is Almost Justified

The other night, the writing bug really hit me. You know, when that perfect idea bounces around in your skull all day, getting louder and louder, until you absolutely must sit down and get the thoughts flowing out onto the keyboard before they permanently damage your brain.

I was completely enmeshed by subject-verb agreement when I first noticed the tickle on my foot. It was easy to ignore. I had a plot to move forward, people! No time for distractions. Besides, it was probably just the airflow from the fan fluttering in my toe hair. (What an attractive visual image! You're welcome.)

The tickle turned to prickly but I was getting to the shocking reveal and there was no stopping me now! My fingers were smoking on the keys as I wiggled my big toe just a little. As the prick becomes a pinch, I'm starting to lose focus. My already running imagination starts scripting the possible scenario for my foot bother (ya know, because I gots me some o' tha crazies when it comes to "what ifs"). Perhaps it is an ingrown hair forming in protest to the afternoon spent in ugly crocs? Kids are in bed so surely there's no little person attempting to pluck the long strands from my toe knuckle. I'm barefoot but I'm in the house so it can't possibly be a poisonous snake that has somehow mistaken this for a hairy little mouse meal. What if the dastardly house gnomes have armed themselves with tiny pick axes, intent on stealing the bones in my foot, carving and polishing them, then selling the finished pieces in their highly lucrative tourist trade?

Finally, I wrap the scene. The last period barely strikes the screen before I'm leaning over to examine my foot. This is where I nearly throw my laptop into the next room in a effort to stand faster.

Attached to my big toe is a very large earwig. Ewwwww!

I hate those things! They're so creepy, with their pinchy little bums and the slithering way they move. And this one was huge! Nearly the size of my toe! Okay, that's just the adrenaline talking. It wasn't as big as that. More like the size of a quarter. Or perhaps a large penny...that's been folded into thirds lengthwise. Alright, alright...it was a normal size. But STILL! The bugger hurt. (Heheheheh...see what I did there?)

I spent the rest of the evening with one eye searching for split modifiers and the other for slinking insects. One must protect one's valuable and sought-after foot bones in case the retirement portfolio doesn't work out.

Worn Out Welcome

You might have noticed that I'm an emotional person. That might be why I get sentimentally attached to inanimate objects. It took me nine months to box up Baby's infant clothes because I was going to miss seeing those little outfits, even if there was no way she could fit them. There are stacks of the kids' homework with cute mistakes or funny observations. Ticket stubs from movies the Man and I went to when we were dating, pictures from my crazy teenager years, broken jewelry, and shirts that are several sizes too small. I keep it all.

Sometimes, you just have to say goodbye.

And sometimes, you really, really want to say goodbye but your son won't let you.

Remember the Boy's security blanket, affectionately called the mee mee? Remember how we mourned the loss when his beloved item went missing a year and a half ago? Remember the rejoicing and jubilation that resulted when the mee mee reappeared? Yeah...

This is what the mee mee looks like now:

It's in scraps. I find little shreds of it all over the house. At this point, I think it's less cotton, more snot and dirt. Now, being sentimental, I've saved a couple fragments for the Boy's memory box (and also to use as fodder for his teenage angst). But seriously...the rest of it has to go. Ewwww.

I need a raise...

Moments ago, the Boy runs off to the bathroom. I didn't think much of it; he's been completely self-sufficient for over a year now. But I did notice how he sounded much more...splashy...than usual. Then he calls out to me. He peed on the floor.

There was no accident. No wetting his pants, because he had already pulled those down. His reason why he did that? "Just because."

So I made him clean it up and disinfect the floor. And now he will be spending some time in his room "just because."

You know what would really help me remain sane? A Sony Pocket Reader. Yep. If I had one of those neat little books-on-a-mini-computer things, then I could just lock myself in my room and not come out until the Man gets home.

Would you like one, too? Well, guess what? Shauna is giving one away on her book blog! Check it out!

(But if you win it, you have to let me borrow it the next time the Boy does something "just because.")

Thanks for Tolerating Me

Dear Neighbors,

Thank you for inviting our family to your Halloween party. We were really excited to get the invitation, as we don't get out much. And I was super stoked when you asked me to bring a dessert! So I put my whole heart and half my brain into making you something special. I really hoped you enjoyed it and that those gagging noises are the way you express happiness.

Sincerely,
Your new favorite neighbor

(The details on the heart are a little muted...I left it in hot water just a little too long...)

A Mothering Moment by Jessica G.

You can't really bond with your baby until she has spit up in your mouth.

I've brushed my teeth three times and I'm still gagging.

Quick Tip for Today

When changing your newborn baby, it pays to have another set of eyes looking out for you.

So when your husband says - just as you are opening the new, clean diaper - "Hey, it looks like she's trying to poop!" you might want to pay attention.

Lesson learned.

Pros and Cons: Sharing a Room

*I actually wrote this yesterday morning but in my sleep-deprived stupor, neglected to publish it so here ya go!

Warning: you may not want to be eating anything just now...

Pros and Cons of Siblings Sharing a Room

Pro: Both kids in the same room make for a one-stop goodnight kiss.
Con: Both kids in the same room make for a one-stop spanking when they won't keep quiet and go to sleep.

Pro: The mess that accompanies small children is contained to one room instead of several, including the hallway in between.
Con: The mess that accompanies small children is not reduced, just contained, so shoes are essential on any forays into their bedroom.

Pro: You won't know who actually made the mess so you can instruct them both to clean it up.
Con: You won't know who actually vomited on the floor between their beds so you'll have to go in a for a closer inspection...don't breathe through your nose.

How does a child throw up several times and not wake up? It's beyond me! We moved da Boo into the guest bedroom before we pulled the Boy from a puddle of puke and hosed him down. He showed no symptoms that he was even feeling sick and I didn't hear him throwing up...it's a conundrum. All of this happened at midnight and I then had a hard time sleeping, with the smell of vomit on the air. I'm tired today...

Well, Crap

And really, I'm trying to take that word out of my daily vocabulary (just doesn't sound as good when the kidlings say it) but in this instance, it is fitting. If you're eating anything or thinking about eating anything today, you might want to come back to this one later...don't say you weren't warned.

So the other day, I was still trying to cling to the battered remnants that remain of my pitiful Birthday Week. I wore one of my favorite outfits and some favorite pieces of jewelry. As the day progressed, I had people give me several compliments on my earrings. They're a long dangly pair, made from a copper wire with different color beads and such. I love them! So when people tell me they like my earrings, my first response is to say "I know! Don't they totally rock?" but that's not polite so I just say that under my breath after the person walks away. Anyway, I was looking as good as a short, chubby, pregnant woman can by law.

Later that evening, after tucking the kids into bed, I headed into the master bathroom for some "alone" time. I'm gonna digress for a moment (leaving you with that pleasant visual image - you're welcome!) and ask you, is it not the most annoying thing when your kids think they need to be right there in the bathroom with you? Seriously! Haven't they ever heard of privacy? I once heard a spoof song written by a mom to the tune of Hootie and the Blowfish's "I Only Wanna Be With You" called "I Only Wanna Pee Alone."

Okay, detour over.

So, after...completing my task, I reached over to flush the toilet. Just as my hand pressed on the lever, I heard a small splash. I looked down in time to see my beloved earring swirling it's way down the bowl. Oh no! Even if I had wanted to, there was no way I could have saved it. Crap, crap, crap! Now my other earring lays in my jewelry box, a widow, never to be worn again.

And now I have to find some earrings to replace them.

Adventures in Uncharted Territory

Alas, I am an empty-nester...for four hours a week...until the baby comes. And it's great! The Boy started Preschool yesterday. Once again, I defied all pregnancy-hormone logic and didn't cry. No weeping, wailing or gnashing of teeth. Although maybe I hugged him three times too many before saying goodbye...


He insisted on having "spikey hair" for the first day. And he calls hair gel "jello" so how can I resist when he asks?

No first day jitters here! He got right to work on their first project.

I quietly left the room, waiting ever so briefly for him to come running after me. He didn't. Then I giggled all the way home, turned the tv on, and grabbed a Nutty Bar (or two), ready to catch up on some shows that didn't star a bi-lingual girl with a monkey or a clue-hiding dog. I was well into my second episode of Doctor Who , drooling over David Tennant, when the phone rang. It was the Boy's teacher. Uh oh. The Boy had an accident. Great. So I hurried out the door with a change of clothes (and shoes).

When I arrived, the Boy was with his teacher and the preschool director...in the men's restroom. Hrmmm...haven't been in one of those intentionally since I was in grade school. Apparently, all this restroom had was a handicap stall and a urinal. Not quite comfortable with the urinal, the Boy headed to the stall only to hesitate because the potty was so high. He didn't make it. And now the director was cleaning up the "spill" while I stripped the Boy down. For the next twenty minutes, I was constantly looking at the door, hoping that no grown men would need to make a pit stop. How awkward that would be!

While getting him into clean underwear, I looked into his teary eyes and he softly whispered "Can I go home with you?" Oh, the torment! How I wanted to carry him home and snuggle up together with more Nutty Bars...but he really needed to stay with his class. He let a couple of tears fall and I almost wavered. Luckily, the director said that it was snack time in his class and surely he wouldn't want to miss that. He was still quiet but let me guide him back to his class. Again, I left him there, perhaps a trifle more emotional than the first time - for both of us.

At Least It's Funny Now

Alternate Titles: "Things I'd Rather Not Do At 8 am" or "I'll Get Him Back For This When He Starts Dating"

Yesterday morning, the Man left for work around 8 am. I don't get up then. I get up when the starving moans from the kids wake me up, usually about 9 am. The Boy, however, was wide awake. Since potty training is going so well and he's in a pull-up in the morning, I don't worry too much about him. Minutes later, he seemed a little distraught, as he yelled from the bathroom.

Boy: I did a poopy.
Me: Where?
Boy: In da bafrum.
Me: Hooray (mumbled, half asleep).
Boy: Mommy, you come clean me?
Me: What?
Boy: I gotta poopy on my toe.
Me: WHAT??

The sight (and smell) that greets me when I rush into the kid's bathroom is not a pleasant one. Apparently, he didn't quite make it to the potty. He had pooped in his pull-up. Thinking he could handle the situation himself, he had removed it (schmearing it all down his legs) and then climbed on the potty to finish. Then, seeing the brown footprints on the floor and bathmat, he had moved the stool over to the sink and attempted to clean the floor by dumping cuploads of water mixed with handsoap on the floor.

After getting him cleaned up, I then am faced with cleaning the bathroom. When I finished, I had never been so ready for a shower in my life.

Oh the Irony!

My blog has been a little dreary lately so it's high time for a little levity, don't you think?

And since my world currently revolves around the use of the potty, I'm going for a little bathroom humor. Literally. Keep in mind, this was *not* humorous when it happened but when relating this story to others, it's gotten funnier.

Yesterday, I had the Boy sit on the potty. Nothing new, he does that all the time (with no results). This time, I knew he needed to go to the bathroom so I told him to stay on the potty until he peed. Surely that would happen within moments, right? Nope. He went nearly two hours! (Insert visions of that woman who stayed on the toilet for two years...)

Just before the two hour mark, he starts screaming for his sister to come help him. I'm thinking maybe his foot fell asleep so I wasn't concerned. She runs to the rescue and reports back to me: he peed on the floor. Lovely. He must have gotten off the potty.

I grab the cleaning supplies and head into the bathroom. But the Boy is still on the potty, looking slightly freaked out. Apparently, he was still seated when he peed, he just wasn't...aiming.

***WE INTERRUPT THIS POST TO BRING YOU AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE:***
The Boy just used the potty for the first time! Dancing for joy!
***WE NOW RESUME THIS POST ALREADY IN PROGRESS***

Nothing actually made it into the toilet bowl, so he did pee on the floor. But the irony of this situation was that sitting on the floor, directly in his, uh, target zone, was the basket of prizes that he could win every time he used the potty. Those were now soaking in a warm pee bath.

Really, I couldn't reward him because he hadn't made the shot correctly, so to speak. I did give him a tootsie roll for actually peeing.

Mr Hyde's Potatoes

Normally, I makes great potatoes. They are a pivotal player in every good meal I've served. My favorite is the browned potatoes that are slow-roasted in the oven with the Sunday roast. I get all drooly just thinking about them. So normally, my potatoes rock. Tonight was not normal.

I waited until the last minute to make dinner, realized that my menus ran out a few days ago and therefore had nothing planned. Since the Man is just returned (YIPPEEEE!!) from his loooong business trip, he was not at all in the mood for takeout. Fine. I usually cook most nights anyway.

So we had grilled chicken, corn and garlic potatoes. I used real potatoes, mashed 'em up good (by hand, thank you very much) with butter, sour cream, seasonings and garlic. Normally (apparently I like this word today) I use dehydrated garlic but my mother has introduced me to jarred garlic. It's in the produce section: little glass jars of minced garlic. It's great! And it's very powerful. I just bought a new jar and they didn't have my usual brand. Now I'm just making excuses...Anyway, I added the normal amount of garlic and commenced with the mixing. I thought it was a little...uh, fragrant but since getting sick, smells aren't really my thing. So I served it up, thinking I'd made another lovely potato side dish.

The Man took one bite and nearly gagged. Turns out, they were more like "garlic with a hint of potatoes" than the usual garlic potatoes. Not so tasty. Da Boo didn't like them, either. The Boy was happily eating his PB sandwich and didn't care. I could only handle one bite. Ugh!

Note to self: highly fragrant garlic means very, very powerful flavor.

Shows how much the Man loves me. He had taken a big heaping helping (because NORMALLY my potatoes rock) and managed to eat half of them. He's my hero.

Also? Today was the Boy's birthday party. Still recovering...post to come (and a cake!).

Speaking of the Boy...the kids went to bed an hour ago but that doesn't mean they are asleep...In fact, I was just frantically summoned to the Boy's room with pleas of help, saying he has a basket stuck on his head...this ought to be good...

What dishes have you ruined just in time for dinner?
What crazy things have your kids done when they were supposed to be asleep?

Murphy's Law

Murphy's Law states that whatever can go wrong will. And it hit us pretty hard, starting on that Thursday before Christmas. I had been packing furiously and getting everything ready. We were planning to leave no later than 10 a.m. on Friday, hoping to arrive at my brother's house in time for dinner. (This is going to be a looooooong post...go to the bathroom first, maybe get you some snacks...)

Thursday evening, I was hard at work on a cake when the Man was summoned upstairs by da Boo. Her fingers hurt. Not just her finger, but fingers, plural. What he saw on her fingers raised some serious red flags. It looked like on both hands, her index and thumb tips were covered with a blister or the skin was red and puckered. Also, it was spreading to her other fingertips. For the next couple hours, we were talking to the after-hours pediatrician on the phone and contacting the various doctors in our family for their opinion. The Man even broke out my new camera to take pictures of da Boo's fingers so they could see what it looked like. The after-hours doc's diagnosis didn't fit. Our next option was the Emergency Room or wait for morning and her regular pediatrician. Since she wasn't running a temperature or in great agony, we opted to wait. I was on the phone as soon as the office opened. I described her fingers and the nurse said we should come in...was 3:30 that afternoon okay?

"Well," I tried to explain, "We're supposed to be heading out of town this morning..."
"Oh," she said, shuffled some papers and then "How soon could you get here?"'

The Man and da Boo were immediately sent to the doctor. The diagnosis? She had a strep infection. In her fingertips! I've never heard of such a thing! She came home with antibiotics and lotions. By then, it was lunchtime. We should have left two hours before. I fed the kids and we finished getting packed.

By 2:30, we were on our way! Our route took us through Wyoming. The Man had checked weather and road conditions the night before and all looked good. Things didn't look so good once we got started several hours later than we intended. It was snowing, freezing cold, with strong winds. Along this route, there are electronic billboards that tell you of any problems, like hazardous conditions or road closures. We had been on the road two hours when these billboards reported the road was closed nearly an hour away. No worries, we told each other. We'll keep driving and perhaps they can get the road re-opened. Still, we kept on eye on those billboards. We had just entered a town and I saw that the message on the billboards had changed.

Me: Road Closed at Exit 104.
The Man: Where are we?
Me: Exit 102.

Temptation to use Daddy Words ensues. At this exact moment, my brother calls us to see where we are. It is 5:30 and we had planned to be nearing his house by then. Instead, we have him get online and check the road conditions. He reports that the road is closed...in three other places.

With no choice, we find a hotel for the night. After getting our room, we grab some dinner. Then, we get the kids in their swimming suits and have a fun time in the hotel pool. That evening, the kids are on one double bed and we are on the other.

This delay was actually a good learning experience, for the most part. We did have a good time in the pool (until my swimming suit failed but that is a whole other post - which I will probably never post) and we learned that the kids could not share the same bed without both being hauled from the blankets at some point to be placed in time out for fighting. Also, we learned that when travelers are stranded for the night, the first place they go for breakfast in the morning is the Wal-Mart bakery. There were no donut holes left.

These problems resolved, we got back on the road and resumed our travels*. We had to go about 15 miles under the speed limit as the roads were icy and the wind was still blowing. After driving for a while, we stopped to have lunch made from things we'd packed from home. This was when I realized that in my flurry of packing, I forgot the peanut butter. Mmmmm...jelly sandwiches...

*I hesitate to mention the darkest moment on the trip. We were driving slowly along that highway, when the Man noticed there were no on-coming traffic. Thinking the road was closed again, we continued on carefully. Soon, we came across the reason. There was an accident. A very, very bad one. Since I am no longer on happy pills, I tend to...freak out?...shall we say. It's hard to sob hysterically but keep quiet so as not to alarm your kids, sitting behind you.

Ewwww Yuck

Sorry for the posting drought. And I don't have a book to blame this time. Instead, I'll blame the flu.

Friday afternoon, the Boy woke up from his nap and da Boo proceeded to run into his room to tease him mercilessly. She's such a good sister. So, he's crying and all hysterical by the time I mosey in there. He'd called out to me earlier, saying he had spilled. Not knowing what that meant, I didn't think much of it but when I walked into him room to get him out of his crib, I understood.

"I spilled" is Boy-speak for "I threw up."

And we all know just how good I am at handling that sort of thing! Luckily, it wasn't bad and was quickly cleaned up. Later that evening, I went to a really great bread-making class - which I will have to blog about later - when the Man calls me. Apparently, the Boy had "spilled" again - twice. He wasn't running a temperature, wasn't acting subdued or abnormal. Just spewed his guts periodically.

Saturday, he was fine. He even got mad at his daddy when the Man won't give him a sandwich for lunch, offering instead crackers and Sprite. The Boy came to find me and announced "Daddy no loves me anymore." Sunday morning dawned bright and early (we had a blizzard the day before so it was also very cold). The Man left for his meetings and the Boy woke up. This time, when he announced that he "spilled," I leapt out of bed. I got him cleaned up and tried texting the Man about the problem. This was compounded by the fact that I was supposed to substitute in Primary for da Boo's class. Still no temp or acting sick. I decided he couldn't go to church when his diaper erupted, resulting in yet another load of laundry. We ended up tag-teaming church: the Man got to go to Sacrament and I got to hang out in Primary.

The Man has a touch of it and da Boo is currently sitting on the potty after whining that her tummy hurt. Should make for an interesting evening! Anyone want to place bets on how soon I come down with it?

***Update!***
I had no sooner hit "Post" when da Boo vomited all over herself while sitting on the toilet. So she's crying, I'm trying not to gag and the Man is mocking me. So I made him clean the bathroom while I took a stripped-down girl to our room to shower. She is tucked back in bed with clean jammies, a sippy cup of Sprite and a barf bucket sitting on the floor next to her bed.

My Failure As A Mother

Can you keep a secret?

Come a little closer...

Closer...

Okay, here's the deal: I cannot handle vomit. Not even my own. Hate it, hate it, hate it! So I fail as a mom when my poor kids are puking like mad, feeling sick and miserable. All they want is their mommy but I am covering my mouth and heading for dryer ground! The Man and I even made a pact before we were married: I could handle what came out one end of our kids if he would handle the other end.

This brings me to why I haven't posted in the last couple days. I've been hiding. Well, not really. Actually, I was sick first. Of course, the Man has a business trip and can't take care of me. He did make it to the store to stock up on Sprite and Pepto Bismol before racing off to the airport. (Note to self: next time the flu hits, claim I have an important meeting with Santa Claus and catch the next flight to the North Pole!)

So I spent Thursday moaning, groaning, sipping Sprite and downing the pink goodness that is Pepto. Last night was da Boo's Preschool Graduation...I'll post pictures later. I called in the re-enforcements (namely Aunt Denise) to make sure she would have someone with her. I was able to make it but not without lots of whining and whimpering. All seemed well in the land of Me.

Then midnight rolls around.

Da Boo wakes up crying. I tuck her back in and turn up her ceiling fan. Then I head back to bed. A little while later, she wakes up again. Before I can make it to her room, her crying is interrupted by an all too familiar sound. I stop. I contemplate hiding in my closet for the rest of the night. As she continues gushing like Old Faithful, I decide to gird up my loins and go to battle, reminding myself to breathe through my mouth.

A load of laundry, a shower, a floor scrubbing, two mad dashes to the outdoor garbage can, new jammies and a set of clean sheets later, da Boo is back in her bed and I can go back to mine. I certainly didn't win any medals for valor, as I frequently had to leave the room to stop my gagging. And more than once, I was cursing the Man for leaving me to this misery. But it's finally over.

For now.

**UPDATE: It's just about 6:30 pm. I talked to the Man earlier. He is sick! So I hereby retract all muttered curses and mean thoughts toward my beloved, who is stuck in another state with only room service to take care of him. Hope they have lots of Sprite!