I’m sleeping on a bed of towels with one hand on a neon pink trash can.
The beginning of every wet rattley kid cough could very easily be mistaken for the dreaded and unpredictable, ‘middle-of-the-night-hell-no-you-don’t-get-any-warning’, guttural kid vomit eruption.
The kind that build from a quiet but rapid low-end rattle at the back of their tiny throats, and then swell into a full blown shouting groceries situation ending with their favorite stuffed animal being f*cking RUINED.
If it happens I will jump up, and I know not to jump up. I will fumble toward the light switch as fast as I can to try and assess the damage, and/or to find out at which spewing kid fountain I need to shove my cupped hands.
I know better.
It will always be too late. I will always get tangled in a blanket during the jump, dragging it across the room just widening that debris field.. so, wide. If I do manage to catch anything in my hands cup, it’s not something I would brag about. Or even talk about with you. Ever.
I am too scared to turn off the lamp. I am too scared to sleep.
I am traumatized from earlier having to use a garden hose in the freezing wind to remove what looked like Kraft Mac-N-Cheese and fruit snacks from a 3-in-one booster seat. From Polar Express Day pajamas. Another favorite stuffed animal. Shoes. My brand new leather seats..
Who is feeding these children.
This will end with two freshly bathed and medicated kids sleeping soundly on a brand new towel bed, holding back-up stuffies and snoring sweetly like nothing ever happened. A faint, ‘slosh-slosh, slosh-slosh’, coming from the laundry room.
I will still be awake at 3:47AM, most likely transferring the A-team from the washer to the dryer. After that I’ll probably be quietly reminding Freddie The Elf to do something cool before the fever dogs wake up.
I’ll fall asleep at 5:23AM. Our alarm for school goes off at 6AM.
I’ll hope to God that we get out the door on time. Because inevitably, it will be my turn to bring snacks for Bonnie’s class and I’ll have to make a quick stop before drop-off. There are 18 kids in her 2nd grade class, and I now have only 17 snacks? This means that one of my children stole a snack, and then lied about it.
I should be mad. I should be exhausted and flat out pissed off after a barf bath, 37 minutes of sleep, and spending $5 extra bucks on frigging fruit snacks that I could have used on, like, Redbull.
But I won’t be mad. I will be cool. So cool. I will be, ‘Jack-Nicholson-wearing-Ray-bans-smiling-with-my-teeth-cool’, during that drive. And it will scare the sh*t out of my kids.
Because thanks to a stomach bug that took out the little one, and landed on the big one, I will know which one of my children is a dirty dirty thief. And a fibber.
My grip tightens on the neon pink trash can next to the bed and I think to myself.. “I am never, ever, buying fruit snacks again.”