She slept through last night. Through. The. Mother. Fucking. Night. Yep. I said it. She was asleep at 7; not a peep until 6. Oh, glorious sleep.
But there is a toll for such miracles.
She usually smells like dookie drawers in the morning…poo is her primary motivation to rouse us from our slumber. I unzipped her sleep sack to change her diaper, and discovered her onesie wet up to the chest on both sides. Oh dear.
Did I mention the proclamation? Last night, I was all, The laundry is DONE, the last load is dry. There will be no more pooping or puking or soiling of anything else today.
So this morning, after her bonus bath, I dressed her in one of my favorite outfits. Maybe I was feeling cocky. See, the girl was sick last week. Puke for dessert after every meal or nursing. Fever. The scoots. All the flu basics. She’s better now.
This morning’s show? Just to keep it interesting.
At breakfast, her appetite was waning again. What? We just fixed this. When I took her tray to rinse in the sink, she coughed [she likes to chow on her whole hands these days. Sometimes a wrist. Whatever, girl. Snack on.]. “No puking,” I reminded her from the kitchen. When I returned…puke. Down her bib, onto her pants, into the crevices of the high chair.
Pants into the laundry with the poo jammies; the rest is salvageable. Highchair into the driveway to meet the hose. Again.
The Through The Night Bridge troll must be satisfied by now. Satisfied and laughing.
So we were getting ready for an outing after her nap, and I notice this wet spot down her leg…
My husband reminded me of my words. And apparently, with a baby, there is no LAST load. Just the NEXT load. Repeat. Next load. Repeat.
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