A Note on Late Nights

Oh, the things you'll do for your kids.

"Daddy, Daddy!!!" my 2-year-old screamed at the top of her lungs at 1:45 a.m. My wife, of course, awoke first and dashed down the hallway with surprising lucidity at that hour. To her horror, the scene was not pretty.

"Honey!" she, too, screamed at 1:46 a.m. I stumbled clumsily out of my luxurious digs and ambled my way down the hallway to find my little angel covered in vomit. Not your run of the mill vomit, but vomit induced by a calculated mixture of chocolate milk and red Twizzlers. The chunks hanged precariously from her recently quaffed hair. And then she said the words no father wants to hear in that situation.

"Hold me," she cried pitifully.

I wanted so badly to tell her that mama would hold her, but the wife was dry heaving in the corner so I held out my arms and my frightened little one fell into them. So, with both of us dripping vomit at different angles we sloshed to the bathroom where Mom was preparing a warm bath.

Note to self--Twizzler chunks dipped in chocolate vomit do not break up in lavender bath salts.

Rinse, repeat. Yeah, that's right. We repeated this procedure three times during the night and before I knew it I was lying in a heap on the living room floor watching Madeline in my newly donned PJs thrusting the puke bucket into my angel's face as she quivered feverishly.

As we speak, she is back to her normal self, but for a precious day and a half, we had lethargy-girl. It wasn't so bad. I will gladly take a bit of vomit to the shoulder for a day of peace and quiet.