I'm Okay, We're Okay.

I'm Okay, We're Okay.

For those of you sweet, wonderful humans out there who were reading my blog every week when it came out, I'm here to assure you that despite my recent lack of postings, I'm fine. The holidays are such a crazy time-- as I'm sure they are for everyone-- and I simply couldn't juggle it all and write anything coherent at the same time. That being said, one of my resolutions for 2016 is to give myself a break from time to time, so where a weekly blog deadline was a delightful idea once upon a time, with the impending arrival of Baby #2, I think that's now a bit unrealistic for me. I'm going to shoot for every other week. Did you need to know that? Maybe not. But what's a blog for if not a place to organize one's thoughts? So keep an eye out for my future posts and please know that every legible sentence is a small victory.


As a reward for your return, I offer a story. It's a good one, guys. This is a story of the time I Mommed the hardest I've ever Mommed. I didn't know how other women could accomplish things like this and then it happened to me. You ready? Fair warning: it's gross. You won't enjoy it. It won't be over quickly (okay, it will. It's not a long tale). I hope you're terribly impressed at the end.


So, the other night, we decided that after the holidays and our crazy New Years party and all our houseguests and such, it was time to try to get Harrison back into his old routine of sleeping in his own bed. We'd been letting him sleep between us because he sleeps SO WELL there, and we really needed the sleep ourselves! Anyway, I had also taken down all the bright Christmas lights from his room and many other rooms in the house. Well, he slept for five straight hours in his own bed, a real accomplishment for him as of late, but when he woke up, it was very dark and his warm Mommy and Daddy weren't there. He panicked. He climbed out of bed, screaming and crying, starting to hyperventilate. I heard him on the monitor and crawled my enormous pregnant self out of our bed to get to him as fast as I could. We met in the hallway and I picked him up to console him. He was still so frightened and so worked up that no matter what I did, he wasn't calming down. As I walked him toward the soft glow of the lava lamp in our room, he screamed, cried, and then vomited. He vomited on my face, down my shirt, and a third time in the same places for good measure. I yelled out and Ryan woke up as I was desperately searching the shelf for the baby wipes one-handed. I took Harrison into the bathroom and knelt down by the toilet with him in case he had to throw up again. Ryan asked what he could do and I simply asked for a towel. I used the wipes and a hand towel dipped in water to clean Harrison off, and I removed his clothes. I handed him, now in just a diaper, over to Ryan, who took him and hugged him as he continued to cry. He calmed Harrison down and put pajamas on him.  I took off my own shirt as I knelt there in the bathroom and then turned to the toilet and threw up. I threw up four times. Then I regained my composure, helped get Harrison into our bed and back to sleep, and wiped the small tears that only accompany vomiting from under my eyes. The fact that I didn't throw up until after I had cleaned up my son, removed his clothes, and handed him off to his Daddy is a feat I'm pretty proud of. It was so gross. I'm sorry you had to read that.


There's my little tale for this week. Haven't you missed me terribly?


Until next time... "If you're gonna spew, spew into this."


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