This past weekend did not turn out quite how I was expecting it to be. So when Sunday night rolled around, all I wanted to do was sit on the couch, watch The Christmas Story and zone out (and curse the person who decided pregnant women can't have a glass of wine). That isn't quite what I got.
Baby Girl was not herself yesterday and at 7:00 when I asked her if she wanted to go to bed she said yes. So I put her in the crib and 10 minutes later she was crying. Not her normal "I'm a toddler and I feel like I have to complain when I'm in bed" cry, but an actual "there is something wrong cry". In I go, try to get her to lay down and go to sleep. Fail. So I pick her up, go sit on the couch and ignore the blatant warning signs that are repeatedly thrown in my face.
10 minutes later she's doing her best Regan MacNeil impression. Seriously, I was waiting for her head to start spinning around.
As she was projectile vomiting on me, all I could do was look at Andrew. He looked back at me. I started to gag because I cannot deal with the smell of someone throwing up. Finally he moved and got a towel to mop it all up. When she was doing puking we moved into the bathroom (right, we waited until AFTER she was done throwing up to do that) and cleaned up. I managed to not throw up myself, a feat for which I'm pretty sure I deserve a cash prize.
And then Baby Girl went back to bed and I passed out on the couch.
Happy Sunday night to me!
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