It got on your finger Daddy...
I love my son. Little Blue is awesome, which, when you have nights when you're up till 3:30am, you can't complain because he makes the rest of toddlerhood so easy.
At 1pmish, I hear Little Blue penetrating my sleep cycle saying "Daddy." It wasn't a "I want a drink of water" type of Daddy, it was close to a blood curdling "Daddy."
Sometimes, all you need to move like The Flash is boxers.
Little Blue had spat up all over in bed, chunks of what look liked homemade chicken soup were all over his night shirt, bed, and a couple of his favorite cuddle toys. You find it hard not to laugh in your son's moment of ultimate nuckiness when he's complaining that he got sick all over some of his babies (Namely, his favorite Winnie The Pooh and a little cat toy he got in a happy meal).
I call for Dale and she's up quickly as well and guides him into the bathroom to get him clean while I'm cleaning up his bedroom, salvaging what toys I can, pulling cases off of pillows and starting a load of laundry at 1:15am.
This isn't the first time this happened, but Little Blue always feels so ashamed, guilty, and sad when it happens. We do our best to comfort him, and a full 10 minutes after Pink and I went on Haxmat duty, were all hugging and letting him know it's okay.
I put on a spare set of sheets, and we put on a few of his buddies on the bed because we assume all is well and he's asking to go back to bed.
Nearly 2pm...and he's messed the bed again, much smaller, but a mess just the same. Again, Pink is on cleanup and I'm changing sheets, restarting the load in the washer and adding in another bedsheet. This time, though, when we're done, we head downstairs to snuggle on the couch, and Pink and I...without communicating it, set a deadline of 30 minutes. If he goes that long, we'll put him back to bed. If not, we start the clock at 30 minutes and wait again.
Sure enough, at the 25 minute mark, just after he tells us he's well enough to go to bed, I recognize his body starting to constrict and cleaning out the ol' tummy. We stood him up on the floor, and Pink and I neglected to get something for him to "empty" himself into, so we just let him go right on the floor, the whole time telling him to spit it all out and letting him know he's doing a good job.
Yes, parenthood is all about the glamor.
With the clock ticking for 30 minutes again, we clean up his mess real quick, my neurons fire and I go get a LB size waistbasket, and we're snuggling on the couch again.
Sure enough...20 minutes later, LB gets his first instruction on how to bow to the almighty trashcan. He didn't bow, but Pink held and I supported LB, rubbing his tummy the whole time as my father did to my stomache on nights when I was sick. By this time, it's mostly drool and phlegm, so when a couple dribbles end up on my thumb, in his infinite cuteness, my boy says:
"Daddy, I spit up on your finger. I got it on your finger Daddy."
Our hearts melt and I tell him it's okay and I wash my hands and I'm all better. LB and I snuggle up, is requests alternating between watching TV and going to bed, and Pink gets on the horn to Ask a Nurse.
Turns out, toddlers don't get naucious (sp?) like we big kids do. We can feel it coming on, nurse tells us toddlers don't know, it's still pure instinct/reaction.
But, all is well, we give LB a little water to sate his thirst, and he's off to bed.
I send Pink to bed, and 30 minutes meaning 30 minutes, I pick up a book and read for 30 minutes. Bed time...3:32am.
Wake up at 5:45am. At work by 6:25am. Generate report for boss and have it on her desk by 7:45am. Meet with boss. We discuss and the report is wrong, but she can fix it. Head to Pink's place of work where she took LB for a couple minutes until I could dash and take him home for the day. 2pm Pink comes home so I can go to a meeting at a library and talk downloadable audio books till 4. Come home, feed LB and I dinner while Pink goes back to work to finish some things up.
Yeah. Long...long...long day. Blue tired. Blue has 4 meetings tomorrow. 5 hours of meetings. Need...coffee...IV...
At 1pmish, I hear Little Blue penetrating my sleep cycle saying "Daddy." It wasn't a "I want a drink of water" type of Daddy, it was close to a blood curdling "Daddy."
Sometimes, all you need to move like The Flash is boxers.
Little Blue had spat up all over in bed, chunks of what look liked homemade chicken soup were all over his night shirt, bed, and a couple of his favorite cuddle toys. You find it hard not to laugh in your son's moment of ultimate nuckiness when he's complaining that he got sick all over some of his babies (Namely, his favorite Winnie The Pooh and a little cat toy he got in a happy meal).
I call for Dale and she's up quickly as well and guides him into the bathroom to get him clean while I'm cleaning up his bedroom, salvaging what toys I can, pulling cases off of pillows and starting a load of laundry at 1:15am.
This isn't the first time this happened, but Little Blue always feels so ashamed, guilty, and sad when it happens. We do our best to comfort him, and a full 10 minutes after Pink and I went on Haxmat duty, were all hugging and letting him know it's okay.
I put on a spare set of sheets, and we put on a few of his buddies on the bed because we assume all is well and he's asking to go back to bed.
Nearly 2pm...and he's messed the bed again, much smaller, but a mess just the same. Again, Pink is on cleanup and I'm changing sheets, restarting the load in the washer and adding in another bedsheet. This time, though, when we're done, we head downstairs to snuggle on the couch, and Pink and I...without communicating it, set a deadline of 30 minutes. If he goes that long, we'll put him back to bed. If not, we start the clock at 30 minutes and wait again.
Sure enough, at the 25 minute mark, just after he tells us he's well enough to go to bed, I recognize his body starting to constrict and cleaning out the ol' tummy. We stood him up on the floor, and Pink and I neglected to get something for him to "empty" himself into, so we just let him go right on the floor, the whole time telling him to spit it all out and letting him know he's doing a good job.
Yes, parenthood is all about the glamor.
With the clock ticking for 30 minutes again, we clean up his mess real quick, my neurons fire and I go get a LB size waistbasket, and we're snuggling on the couch again.
Sure enough...20 minutes later, LB gets his first instruction on how to bow to the almighty trashcan. He didn't bow, but Pink held and I supported LB, rubbing his tummy the whole time as my father did to my stomache on nights when I was sick. By this time, it's mostly drool and phlegm, so when a couple dribbles end up on my thumb, in his infinite cuteness, my boy says:
"Daddy, I spit up on your finger. I got it on your finger Daddy."
Our hearts melt and I tell him it's okay and I wash my hands and I'm all better. LB and I snuggle up, is requests alternating between watching TV and going to bed, and Pink gets on the horn to Ask a Nurse.
Turns out, toddlers don't get naucious (sp?) like we big kids do. We can feel it coming on, nurse tells us toddlers don't know, it's still pure instinct/reaction.
But, all is well, we give LB a little water to sate his thirst, and he's off to bed.
I send Pink to bed, and 30 minutes meaning 30 minutes, I pick up a book and read for 30 minutes. Bed time...3:32am.
Wake up at 5:45am. At work by 6:25am. Generate report for boss and have it on her desk by 7:45am. Meet with boss. We discuss and the report is wrong, but she can fix it. Head to Pink's place of work where she took LB for a couple minutes until I could dash and take him home for the day. 2pm Pink comes home so I can go to a meeting at a library and talk downloadable audio books till 4. Come home, feed LB and I dinner while Pink goes back to work to finish some things up.
Yeah. Long...long...long day. Blue tired. Blue has 4 meetings tomorrow. 5 hours of meetings. Need...coffee...IV...
posted by DaddyMan at
10:39 PM
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