I am tired today. I am so very, very tired. Why, pray tell? It is all because of this guy:
It was about 2:00 AM when I heard him crying through the monitor. I lay still for a few moments, hoping begging for it to be one of those “Eh, eh, eh, where is my binky, eh, eh…Oh. There it is. zzzzzz” moments. It was not long, however, before the cries became more pronounced and it was quite clear that parental intervention was required.
This is the scene that every parent of a young child dreads:
You walk into the room and are immediately hit by the unmistakable smell of sour milk. You proceed with caution, bracing your abdomen for the oncoming gag reflex. You turn on a low light and find your toddler sitting up in the bed, vomit all over his mouth and down his shirt. As a bonus there is a lovely pool of projectile on the pillow as well as on the sheet. If you are really in trouble your little one proceeded to rollover in the puddle of stomach innards before fully waking, resulting in bits of curdled milk strewn throughout his sopping and matted down hair. You curse the heavens and draw a bath.
That is the worst case scenario. Last night was actually not as bad. Yes, he required some minor clean up involving a quick sponging and a change of clothes. I murmured several utterances of thanks to the Projectile Gods, for the vomit area was otherwise contained to his pillow and a full change of bedding was not required. His vomiting was minimal and thankfully we were lucky.
Or were we?
See, here is where you can get into trouble. Here is where you could be in for a very long night. Here, is where you could have just experienced what I like to call none other than:
The Preliminary Puking
You think to yourself, that wasn’t so bad. You calm him down, clean him up, get him settled back into his bed with all of his comforts and return thankfully back to your own pillow. You lay there waiting for sleep, and just as you slip into a wonderful dream involving you and Hugh Jackman, you hear it. “Cough, cough, cough…splutter”
Or, as I prefer to call it: The Second Coming
You understand now that this has the potential to go on all night. You calm him down again, clean him up again, and change his bedding again (by now you may also find yourself in the basement doing laundry at 3:00 AM). You mentally add in your head the previous amount of projectile volume with the current amount of projectile volume in what will likely be a failed attempt to estimate the amount of digestive content that could still be churning within the stomach of your little one.
In other words, you are betting the odds on the likelihood of Round Three.
Or as I like to call it: The Third Wave.
Here is where you really play the game, for you have a decision to make. Do you sit and wait in the rocking chair with a blanket supplement of towels laid over you both, waiting for the inevitable to come? Or do you risk putting him back in bed again?
Sometimes you have no choice. By then he could be so traumatized by what has just transpired, again, that he’s not having anything to do with his crib anyway. You proceed to rock him gently; half sleep half waking, whilst the red digital lights of the clock mockingly tick away.
And you watch as the sun rises.
The Second Coming and The Third Wave did not actually transpire last night after the Preliminary Puking. But it HAS happened, and knowledge of the fact that it has happened and therefore COULD happen again, is enough to infiltrate the quiet sleep of any mother.
I put my poor little dude back in his bed, listened to him stir, and waited. My heart jumped with every restless sigh and turn that echoed through the monitor. There I lay, trying to get back to Hugh (sorry Honey), but instead remained bleary eyed and awake, hanging onto the darkness; just waiting for the inevitable which never came.
But it totally could have…