Not a Fan of What Happens Next (or hot dogs)

Wanna play a game? Let's play "How Could This Get Any Worse!"

Saturday night, 11pm:

I am just about to slip into some REM sleep when I hear some faint crying over one of the three (yes, still three) monitors. It's Little Man. Score points for being the room closest to the master- less groggy walking.

It's really dark and I want to make this quick, without turning any lights on, so I try and coax him to lay back down and pat the pillow where his head goes.

-This is where things start to go south-

The area I'm patting is... wet. And chunky. Cue the horror; Flip on the bright glare of the lights to find a puddle of sick, then another... then another. The baby is also covered in it. (quell the gag reflex!) I deposit the baby into the empty bathtub, fully clothed. Then race to strip down the crib of the bright red vomit. (STAINS! AGH!)

I notice while toiling away, The Husband is still asleep as the baby is dripping in the tub. Um, no sir. I inform him (a bit curtly) that his job will be peeling off icky pajamas and bathing the pale-faced baby.

Racing downstairs to the laundry room, I find that all the bedding; bumper, quilt, sheets, etc. makes up at least two loads. I can't just leave it overnight, it will most certainly stain my beloved crib set. The only reasonable conclusion is that I must stay up through the laundry loads to make sure everything goes through at least one washing.

Thankfully, The Husband has the baby washed and put into clean pajamas. Now I must get out the secondary set of emergency sheets and redress the bed. Here's the thing about non-drop-side cribs: (and the crib tents attached to them) in order to put the sheets on, I require a step-ladder and proceed to bend my body into very uncomfortable angles. (pout)

I relegate myself to some Netflix and a game of Tiny Tower.

What happens next!

Sunday morning, 2am: (TWO AM!)

The Husband brings down a bereft little baby. It has happened again. Little Man has already been bathed, but... there's a sheet situation again. Luckily, the dryer cycle has literally JUST ended and I have the originals all clean and ready to change.

I truck the replacements upstairs to find a new problem; because the crib bumper had been in the wash, it was unable to stop the flow of puke from migrating out onto the carpet. (this is the point in which I burst into tears) After cleaning up the mess as best I could and preparing the crib for baby again, I rummage through the cupboards to find some leftover baby Zofran to get him to stop with the puking.

Basically, I've stayed up all night with post-vomit laundry. (went upstairs for some sleep at 3:30, then back up at 7:00)

Oh, and today? IT'S FATHER'S DAY. The Husband graciously notices how delirious I am from lack of sleep and sends me upstairs for a nap (bless him!)

What happens next!

Sunday afternoon, 4pm:

The Zofran has helped immensely with the Sam's Club hot dog coming out the top-end.

... However, his body has decided this evil hot dog of Satan needs to come out- somehow!

Two more disgusting loads of laundry later, I find myself retying the blasted crib bumper, with the tiny little strings, for the second time. Would announcing toddler-bed-time be any better?! The image of a barfing toddler IN MOTION forces me to continue to contort my limbs around to reposition the sheets. (Talk about SOPHIE'S CHOICE!)

What happens next! 

Tuesday morning, 7:30am:

We had a good day on Monday, so I'm positively perplexed to find another mess this morning.

The only way to describe it (and if you are faint-of-heart, stop reading now. It's about to get graphic) is a diarrhea volano. Diarrhea the consistency of lava. ALL OVER EVERYTHING. This time I even have to take a gamble and throw some plush stuffed animals into the washing machine.

After washing the crib bumper for the third time in just as many days, I've decided I'm saving myself the trouble of tying it back on. It's currently piled in a heap on the kitchen island until I decide what to do with it. I am at odds about the whole situation. Is he sick? Is the hot dog of doom just a severely persistent foe?

I am crossing my fingers for naptime. This morning (thankfully) the diaper was able to contain the... mess. Will I be as lucky in a couple hours from now?

I've warned The Husband that the likelihood of him finding a crib mattress on the floor in the middle of Little Man's room is quite high. I JUST CAN'T CHANGE THAT CRIB ONE MORE TIME.

I think I need a nap myself. I shake my fist at you, HOT DOGS. Because whether you are the culprit in its continuation is up for debate; YOU DEFINITELY STARTED IT. (and you should know I HOLD GRUDGES)

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