We shouldn't have gotten out of bed

Friday, February 11, 2011

The morning started out . . .

Hang on.  To understand Friday, you need to know about Thursday.

Thursday was typical except it was Trey's birthday.  So they had cupcakes at school.  The cupcake could just as easily have been a Red Bull suppository.  Andrew elected for us to go to Grandpa's and Sivi's house for the evening.  They are my witnesses to his bouncing off the wall.  I was edgy, and Andrew's mood only aggravated mine.  Fast forward to bedtime, when I raced through The Three Bears, apologized for yelling at him, and vowed to try for a better mood the next day.

Friday.  We both sleep late.  Neither one of us wants to get up except he's the only one who believes not getting up is actually an option.  Long story short: I put him in the car during a tantrum, his socks in my pocket and his banana in his backpack slung over my shoulder.

A few minutes into the trip, he calms down and says he wants to eat his banana.  He eats it nicely until the end, at which point his Y chromosomes take over and he shoves the three-bite piece into his mouth as one bite.

Did I mention he'd been fighting a cold all week and he doesn't know how to blow his nose and instead just snorts the snot back up?

And that is how we get phlegmy banana vomit as we enter the HOV.

I give him some napkins, which he uses to wipe his mouth and smear vomit to the as-yet untouched parts of his car seat.  He tells me to clean it up.  I tell him there's nowhere to pull over.  He tells me to clean it up.  I tell him I can't right now.  He tells me yes you can right now.

We finally get to school, Andrew with a disgusted look on his face, I with eyes pleading to trade lives with someone.  I leave the kid and his vomit strapped in the car, explain to the cop what had happened, and walk into the lobby.  "Andrew threw up all over himself," I tell the ladies flatly.  "Can someone go get his extra clothes from his cubby?"  Sure, they say, but nobody offers to help clean him up or buy either of us a drink.  I wouldn't have either, I suppose.

I return to the car and begin the process of haz-mat-ing Andrew.  He helps by pointing to the vomit chunks.  The extra clothes arrive.  Andrew gets the pleasure of being naked in the car with an open door as wind blows the 45-degree air into his face and onto his tush.  The extra clothes, I should explain, are in case he has a toileting accident during the day.  But he never does.  So I keep his crappiest clothes in his cubby.  No pun intended.

Andrew dressed, I have him sit down on the back passenger seat so I can put his socks and shoes on.  I retrieve the socks from my pocket and slide them on his thankfully un-vomited-on feet.  I reach for his shoes and realize they aren't there.  Because I put him in the car during a tantrum before we made it to shoes.

I explain the situation to Andrew.

"I want my shoes, Mama!  Where are my shoes?  You forgot my shoes!  I want my shooooooooooes!"

He chooses to save the last two for when we are walking in the school door alongside another family.

I carry my homeless-looking child to his classroom and put him down once inside the door.  "I want my shoes, Mama," he declares loudly.  The teachers look at Andrew.  Andrew glares at me.

"I want to eat, Mama."

Oh, good.  I was afraid the teachers wouldn't get to learn that my child had thrown up basically the only breakfast I had brought for him.  Luckily he still has a cereal bar.  "We have something else?" he asks.  That seems like a good time to make my exit.

I figure I'll make lemonade out of lemons.  Having cleaned barf out of the car seat 80 or 85 times in my life, I decide to let someone else have the pleasure.  Go to Bubbles and get the car (excuse me, the SUV) washed using a half-priced Groupon.  Tip and get the guy to clean the seat (I had wiped the vomit off as best I could because, in the end, I couldn't bear to do that to those guys) without charging me to clean it.  Go to Sam's and get everything I need for a little party I'm having next weekend.  Go home to unload, do the vomit laundry, and get Andrew's shoes.  Am feeling pretty proud of myself for rallying.  Pull out of the driveway and get all the way to the gate when I realize I've forgotten the shoes. Again. But I get them and all is well.

Until I go to Sonic to drown my sorrows in some fried food, miss the curb as I was throwing the trash away,  fall down, and skin my knees.

But then all really is well, until we get home that night and Andrew trips over my foot in the laundry room and falls down and would have fallen onto nice, soft carpet had the door been open like it usually is but instead slams his head directly into the door, which the maid had closed that morning.

But he's okay and truly, all is well, until he asks me about the lint trap and I go to explain it to him and he smashes it down on my finger.

Finally he's asleep.  I check my homeowner's policy and go to bed.  Better safe than sorry.

Saturday was much better.