Caroline is sprouting her canines, was missing a nap, and extremely overstimulated by all of the people, noise and excitement. As a result she spent the entire walk oscillating between extreme happiness and inconsolable crying. By the time the walk and following festivities were over, she was a tired and crabby little Bug.

As I put Caroline into her car seat she made a grab for Thomas’ special blanket. Both Thomas and Caroline have special “blankies” which are identical with the exception of color and age. Like everything else that is his, Caroline covets Thomas’ blanket. Under usual circumstances I like to prevent this sort of co-opting for various reasons, not the least of which is that it reduces conflict. But considering the day Caroline was having up to that point, I ignored it and let her snuggle with Golden Boy’s blankie.

I then moved around to other side of the car and buckled in Thomas as Liz loaded the stroller into the back. Thomas, of course, immediately saw Caroline molesting his blanket.

“Hey!” he shouted.

I was prepared to meet the loud and indignant complaints with a strong show of parental authority, but before doing so I made a simple request, “bud, Bug has a had tough time and she really wants to snuggle with your blankie. Do you think you could let her do it just this once? You can borrow her blankie while she has yours.”

Thomas took Caroline’s blanket into his hand and let it hang down to the floor of the car and looked into his lap. I finished buckling him in. It took me a moment to realize that rather than the angry fit I had expected, Thomas was on the verge of tears.

Aw, crap. Ok, it is his blanket after all. And I am allowing something that is usually not allowed. Plus the Bug is already cranky, I don’t need to upset the other one with crazy inconsistent parental behavior.

So, “hey bud, if it’s going to bother you that much you can have your blankie, you don’t have to let her have it. We’ll find another way to make her happy.”

“N-no,” Thomas whimpered. “Sh-sh-she can have it.”

And there it was, out of nowhere, another genuine Golden Boy moment. Luckily Liz came swooping in just at that moment offering Caroline a trade she could not turn down. So Thomas got his blankie back and Caroline has a new hero.

(Everyone except my father-in-law that is. He and I get along swimmingly, but I don’t think either of us is ready to take it to the next level.)

Of course I knew my lazy morning was over the moment the kids entered the room; I resigned myself to jostling, poking and prodding until they forced me out of bed.

Then Thomas snatched my iPhone off of my nightstand and fired up Kung Fu Panda.  He and Caroline huddled up around the small screen and watched in silence while Liz and I dozed. For an hour. It was like a television commercial: American Family on a Lazy Saturday Morning (brought to you by Apple and Dreamworks).

Once it was all over I remarked to Liz about the miracle we had just experienced.  She smiled looked me in the eye and said, “must be time for another one.”

Fine tonight you win, but if you ever throw a fit over the color of the socks you wear to bed I will be so angry you won’t believe it’s me.

Liz, meanwhile, came down with full blown symptoms on Friday.  She heaved her fireworks into her sink in the master bath.  Once she went down, the weekend was lost; hardly anyone noticed when I was felled on Saturday.  That is how our weekend became awash in vomit and feces.

In truth it has been more than a weekend.  In the past ten days I have had to strip my clothing twice because they were soaked in one bodily fluid or another.  Friday night I pulled, as she was screaming, The Bug from her crib, without turning on the light, only to discover that she had been literally rolling around in her own shit.

In truth it has been more than ten days.  In the past three and a half years I have been peed on, puked on and crapped on.  I have been handed handfuls of snot as if it were an empty food wrapper.  (“Here, daddy.”)  I have found a bottle of expressed breast milk in a diaper bag two weeks after it was put there.  I have cursed the female anatomy as I have had to change a blow out diaper around it.  I HAVE BEEN THROUGH POTTY TRAINING!

God help me, I have to go through it again.

Dear reader, if you are childless, know this: If and when you have children it will be one of the most disgusting endeavors of your lifetime.  It begins with morning sickness and never stops.  Forever and ever.

Amen.

After the lunch I took Golden Boy and The Bug to Grandmother’s house while Disparaged did Mongolita’s bidding.  Golden Boy and The Bug played long and hard until Disparaged showed up to take The Bug back to The Commune.  The original plan was for The Bug to stay with Golden Boy and I at Grandmother’s but it seems only The Bug could guarantee Mongolita’s survival through the night.  So off she went.

I put Golden Boy to bed around 8:30 and returned to the living room to chat with Grandmother.  All was well until I heard a horrible shreak at 10:30.  I sprinted back to Grandmother’s room, where Golden Boy and I were to sleep, and flung open the door.  There, on the bed, was Golden Boy on hands and knees.  A horrible long strand of gut juice was dangling from his bottom lip and whipping over a large crater of vomit which was squarely centered in Grandmother’s bed.

I flew over to the bed, grabbed the boy by his pits and lumbered toward the bathroom.  We didn’t make it.  At the door to the bathroom spew went bouncing off my shoulder, cascaded down my back and landed on my legs, the floor and the wall.  In the bathroom I held the boy over toilet.  He just shrieked; nary a drop of vomit hit the water.

Finally, the shrieking stopped.  I put the boy down and looked over my clean shoulder at Grandmother who was now standing the doorway to the bathroom making all of the appropriate grandmother sounds.  She cradled the boy while I stripped.

It took about twenty minutes to get everyone and everything (mostly) clean.  Which was just enough time for the vomitting to begin again.  Having been through this before I knew what Golden Boy would want the most was a vomit receptacle.  I sat with my boy on the bed while he puked into a bowl and howled.  In the lulls Golden Boy would rest his head in my lap and Grandmother would swap out the bowls.  This continued in 20-40 minute intervals for two and half hours.

Grandmother called it:  We had to take him to the Emergency Room.  Golden Boy and I agreed.  So I strapped him in and we drove off to the hospital.

To be continued … after The Bug’s birthday.

Whatever the cause, I decided  that what we needed was more county fair.  Pig racing! Cotton candy! Helicopter rides! Corn dogs! Overgrown fruit! Moldy pies! Things we’ve never seen before:

GB: What’s that daddy?
Me: That is a mechanical bull. People try to ride it as long as they can without falling off.
GB: That mechanical bull is funny. It looks like a funny horse. Two butts and nooo head.

For four days.

I was left with strict instructions to not let the boy die.  Golden Boy was left with strict instructions to take good care of me.  So far the boy is, in fact, not dead.  As for me, well here’s what I heard (more or less) on day one:

• “Daddy, you need to put on my shoes.”
• “Daddy, you need to tie your shoes.”
• “Daddy, you’re going to take me to daycare, right?”
• “Daddy, tie your shoes.”
• “Daddy, drink eight glasses of water.”
• “DADDY! TIE! YOUR! SHOES!”
• “Daddy, you need to schedule a colorectal exam.”
• “Daddy, tie your other shoe.”
• “Daddy, you’re going to give me a snack in the car, right?”

So we’re doing just fine here, thanks.