More than I really want, actually.
Woke at 3am. Vomit.
Mm-mm-mm yummo. See this would not be such a problem if I’d actually consumed too much alcohol.
And the vomit had been mine.
Nope, it was Monkey Boy.
“Do you think its because he ate too much crap?”
Nooooo, really? Do you think?
Replaced myself with Monkey Boy next to Grumpy Pants on our bed. Proceeded to remove (blergh, gag, gag, retch) the sheets with the (gag, gag, more retching, leave room, come back, retch, retch) massive puddle of chocolate coloured (retch, retch, bergh, retch, retch) vomit in the middle of it.
Monkey Boy decided he needed to assist. Why, I have no idea. He has just vomited up, I’m sure, a months worth of meals – there is no way possible that that much vomit could come out of a child that size. No way in hell.
“No, actually, Mummy, there is some on my pillow, so you will have to wash that. And on my doona, Mummy, so you need to undress it and wash it too. Ok?”
Like I don’t know how to f***ing wash!! Lordy me.
Retch, retch, retch.
Followed by “Eeuuwww that’s gross. Why did he vomit? That’s disgusting.”
Yeah? No shit – I’m the one here cleaning it up. And if you’re going to say something, make it something useful like, oh, I don’t know, how about “Darling, you’re tired and have been working all day. You go back to bed and I’ll do this for you”?
That would be a useful thing to say.
Not, “ergh, gross, disgusting. What are you retching for?”
Retch, retch, retch, retch, retch.
Oh FUCK – I got some on my hand, retch retch, that’s fucking disgusting.