It’s All Fun And Games Until Someone Pukes In The Bed

by Cookie

The thing about having little kids is that you totally can’t plan for shit, Bitches.  I mean, you could, but it always gets fucked up.  Always.

So what I do is think about what I’d like to do, but prepare for all the ways it’s going to get ruined  and be ready to solve those scenarios.

For example, I never ever leave the house without a bag full of snacks, drinks, diapers, and at least one change of clothes for each child.  And by snacks I mean enough food to feed a small troupe of children because my kid is ridiculously friendly and offers to share a lot.  So, I better have the goods to back up her claim, right?  It’s like I have a baby bug out bag ready for the apocalypse at all times.

But on Sundays, my one day “off” I can’t seem to shake this unrealistic expectation that everyone will go to bed early so that I can have enough grownup time to eat some appetizers, drink some fancy wine ( not the boxed shit I use during the week) and watch Game of Thrones.  Or Walking Dead.  Or whatever else is on that I can’t get away with in front of the kids.

And so, by assuming that everything will be easy, I seem to jinx myself.  Every fucking week.  Sunday is the worst bedtime in the history of bedtimes.  I need to lower the bar.

Husband was working yesterday, but it was beautiful out and we kept busy putting the garden in and playing with the Destroyer’s new pony set.  Buddy was his usual happy self, following us along and copying everything his sister does.  We got muddy feet and dirty hands, a little sun kissed and had a great day.

I didn’t have to yell at anybody for the whole day.  Isn’t that amazing??

To my surprise, Destroyer wanted me to put her to bed instead of Husband, so he went off to put Buddy to bed.

It was all going perfectly.

And then Buddy puked all over the fucking bed.  My bed.  And all over the pillow.  And all over the floor.  And all over the dog bed.  How is there that much puke in one baby?  I’ll tell you how.  Let him eat a man size serving of manicotti as a bedtime snack and then gun a toddler bottle full of milk.  One big belch and its game over.

How do like Co-sleeping now, Dr. Sears?  Because I was really loving it until the puke.  Until I let my expectations of a smooth day ruin it for everybody.

Somehow despite the laundry and the cleanup and the frustration, we still had our plate of snacks and some bubbly wine.

But for fuck sake.  Just one day of not anything stupid?  Is that a thing?