This week I had the wonderful experience of being vomited on for the very first time.
Baby Brown Eyes woke up early, happily jabbering and crawling over our bed. Mr. Brown Eyes and I tried to snatch a few extra minutes of sleep, watching Baby through half-closed eyes. It's always hard to wake up on these dark winter mornings when our bed is so warm. But we were rudely awakened when Baby leaned over me and emptied the contents of his stomach. I've never seen Mr. Brown Eyes jump out of bed so fast.
While I was at work, Mr. Brown Eyes kept me updated on the state of Baby's illness. He even made it into a song, sung to the tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas":
Six spots on the rug, five vomits later, four pairs of clothes, three sheets off the bed, two naps later, you have one...haaaappy...kid.
So after two days of washing vomit-scented clothes, shoving a syringe of medicine into Baby's screaming mouth, and watching PBS until my brain felt ready to explode, Baby seems much better. I really can't complain, though, because Mr. Brown Eyes had Baby all to himself through the worst of it, and he handled it like a pro. If it had been me, I don't know how many curdled-milk vomits I could have taken before I vomited, too. Just the smell of it, when I came home, made me cringe.
Mr. Brown Eyes is a paramedic; he's used to that sort of thing.
That's why I married him.
That, and his amazing rear-end.
Hoping I'm not puked on again for a very long time,
The Brown-Eyed Girl