In the wee hours of the morning, Connor started throwing up. In our bed. Here is confession number one, Connor spends at least part, if not the majority of every night sleeping with his mom and dad. Yes, we are those parents. We have the best of intentions and he almost always starts in his own bed, but that sneaky little man seems to always find a way back in. Sometimes we don't even know it, he just lays across the foot of our bed like a dog. We pretend to not like it, but we kind of do. Except for last night. Once again, he had snuck in and we were awoken to the sound of a three year old throwing up. Not good.
Confession two: Matt is the heaviest sleeper of all time, he is cursed with the inability to awaken to the loudest of noises like freight trains or jet liner engines. What a horrible burden that must be for him. So I have had to adapt my sleeping to become hyper sensitive to all the kid noises a parent must be aware of in order to be considered fit by the state. When Matt is abruptly awoken he usually stumbles around in a semi-hysterical stupor until he can fully regain consciousness. This takes anywhere between 5 minutes and 2 hours.
So back to the sickness. When the puking in our bed started happening, Matt and I sprung into action like the well oiled parenting machine we are. I grabbed Connor and headed to the bathroom, Matt leapt out of bed (after I kicked him in the kidney) and started running around the room shouting, "He's sick! He's sick! Melissa, he is sick!" Over and over again. Well, no kidding Honey! He is extremely disoriented (Matt, not Connor) and literally walks into a wall while pacing around. He finally gets it together and comes into the bathroom to check on the little man, who is still throwing up. Then we encounter another problem, Matt is incapable of watching someone vomit without having sympathy vomit. I am sure this medical condition exists in textbooks somewhere. His case is so extreme that I once had a case of food poisoning so severe in a hotel room in Caesar's Palace after eating at an In and Out Burger, that I literally thought I would die on the floor in front of a tacky gold plated toilet. Matt was only able to tend to me by completely wrapping his entire head in towels, totally obscuring his vision, and blindly crawling over to me to bring me water. That is sacrifice.
So now I had two people sick which was double the fun for me. Luckily, after a few minutes Connor was over the worst and Matt was able to step in and take over. He started to get Connor ready for a bath and paused, looking confused. He asked me why our soon to be four year old was wearing size 12 month pajamas. Well, obviously, because he wanted to. Connor has been getting a real kick lately out of wearing his brother's pajamas, Lord knows why. The pants look like shorts and the tops hit right at his rib cage. It's definitely a look, especially when you have the physique of a toothpick and are dry heaving. I told Matt some things are not to be analyzed at 3 in the morning and to get him ready to go back to bed.
Connor came out refreshed but still feeling puny. I told him that we needed to get him some new pajamas and he could go back to sleep. He, in a very dramatic, feeble voice, asked me to get him another set of Hudson's pj's. His sickly tone of voice was so over the top, I felt like I was listening to Debra Winger tell Shirley Maclaine to take care of the kids after she was gone. I told him that his would be much more comfortable, but he disagreed. He informed me that they were his "sick P-jams" and that having his tummy exposed to air (keep in mind that the shirt barely covered nipples) would make him feel better faster. As ridiculous as that whole conversation was it was kind of a relief to know that although he was sick, he still had his flair for the dramatic. That was a good sign.
Matt really did an awesome job taking care of our sick boy all day today while I got to vacation at work. I arrived home to a happy and seemingly fully recovered boy, dressed only in two pairs of underwear because he and Daddy decided that would be a good idea in order, "to cut down on laundwy."
Take that Shirley Maclaine, we call that caretaking Daddy-style.
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