That time Baby K had the stomach bug

Fair warning: This post is about vomit. Lots and lots and lots of vomit. I never thought I would be the kind of mom who openly posted about my child's bodily fluids. I also never thought I'd be the kind of mom to want a mini van, either. But something about having three just changes all your plans. Now I stop at an intersection next to a shiny Chrysler Pacifica and can hear her siren's song calling to me. The cargo room. The automatic doors. The captain chairs to separate the siblings. The potential to have a car that doesn't smell like a weird mix of chlorine and cheese.

But back to the vomit. This baby right here, we call her our angel baby:

She has her moments of sass and spunk, but mostly she is all light and joy. An angel wrapped up in little curls and a love of snuggling.

Sunday, though, Sunday was not her best day. It was a weekend full of birthday parties, little brother's cake, and anything she could hoard from the pinata. She was that kind of crazy only a 2 year old jacked up on social interaction  and tootsie rolls can be.

So when we finally got her - and her siblings - down on Sunday night we breathed a sigh of relief. We had survived another birthday party weekend and were now on complete autopilot. Not an hour later, ten minutes into the episode of The Office we were watching for the 95th time because we have no brain power to focus on new shows, we heard her door open. We both yelled "not it"  for putting her back to bed - as grown ups do - and waited to hear the excuse of why she was up.

Usually, we are immediately accosted with a litany of reasons she can't be asleep. She needs water. The temperature isn't perfect. She decided she actually wants the first pair of pjs I showed her five hours ago. She doesn't want to. Instead, we were greeted with silence. Eerie, terrifying, "why is my never-silent two year old quiet" kind of silence. The last time she was this quiet she had painted her hands red and then stamped our guest bathroom in some sort of macabre toddler art sure to terrify any visitors.

So we stared at her - a little bit hoping she was sleepwalking,  silently willing her to return to her bedroom - and she stared back. Silently she stared back while the only noise in the house was Michael Scott explaining about rabies and bat birth control.

And then she made that face - that face that every parent knows is about to mean a minimum 24 hour family quarantine and trips to the grocery store solely for Lysol and saltines. In an instant, we were both up and sprinting for the stairs as she peered over from the upstairs walkway. While I screamed "go to the bathroom" and RB screamed "cover your mouth," she meekly let out "Kay Kay tummy hurt."

Those were her final words before - instead of turning around and walking three feet to the bathroom - she took two steps forward and threw up over the balcony. Over. The. Balcony. We were halfway to the stairs when it happened and both of us just stopped dead in our tracks, watching it happen, powerless to do anything except shudder and question every life choice we had made up to this point. Her little curls bouncing between the banisters. The floor in front of the stairs now a hazard zone. Both of us too stunned to react as our heads bobbed between the now soaked second floor walkway and the floor below it. My sugar and sweet, always wanting everything organized and cleaned, dainty child had just ensured she made two separate floors complete toxic messes.

She finished up while RB and I stood numbly waiting for the splash zone to be cleared - unable to get up the stairs without an umbrella. And she wrapped up and stepped back and said sweetly "Kay Kay wash hands then watch a movie." Proving that 1 - she has this sick drill down and 2 - she clearly does actually know where her bathroom is.

RB looked around, sighed, and muttered "forever unclean," because he handles stress with cultural references. I sprinted up the stairs to check temperatures and snuggle her, leaving him with the mop and bucket because I handle stress with outsourcing.

After a while she was back asleep, snuggled into our bed, while the movie she requested played quietly in the background. RB came upstairs, whispered "you owe me," and fell asleep. I texted my sister and she wrote back immediately summing up both this particular incident and parenthood in general: "I don't know if I should laugh or be horrified."

"Probably both" I said. "Probably both."