Thursday, May 26, 2011

Puke Protocol

Time: Earlier this week, approximately 1:00 a.m.

Place: Our bedroom, my side of the bed (of course)

Kid: Mom!

Kid: Mom!

Kid: Mom!

Me: Whuuuu?

Kid: Mom, my legs hurt.

Me: Huh?

Kid: My legs hurt. Really bad.

Me: You played soccer all weekend. You’re probably just a little sore.

Five seconds later (It should be noted that I’m already back to sleep)

Kid: Mom!

Kid: Mom!

Kid: Mom!

Me: What?!

Kid: So what do I do?

Me: About what?

Kid: About my legs. They huuuuuurt.

Me: Go back to bed. We’ll reassess in the morning.

(In my life, “reassess” translates loosely to “distract the kid with a big word and a little time and maybe he’ll just forget this ever happened.”)

Ten seconds later (Super Sleeping Mom is once again unconscious)

Kid: Mom!

Kid: Mom!

Kid: Mom!

Me: Whaaaaat?!

Kid: I also puked. A lot.

Two thoughts here. First, why didn’t he LEAD with that information? Do sore legs really trump a puddle of partially-digested cheeseburger hurled from the top bunk? A puddle that is currently about six inches from his sleeping brother in the bottom bunk?

And second, why oh why do these kids always come to MY side of the bed? Joe and I parent equally. During daylight hours we share the load and are both capable of caring for this herd of boys that have magically sprung from our loins. So WHY am I always the first choice in the dead of the night?

(Especially since it's widely agreed that Joe is a MUCH nicer person than I am, particularly between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.)

With all the gross indignities associated with pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding, dads should have to handle all duties associated with bodily functions from late infancy through college. We need to get back to what we worked out when the kids were babies: I would nurse them and Joe changed diapers. Mom is in charge of input, dad is in charge of output.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Because you're the mom, that's why. The dogs should come to your side of the bed too. It's natures way of punishing us, once again, for that damned apple in the garden. Love you, MOM


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