Fast forward 24 hours.
Two year old pukes. In the middle of the night. Doesn’t make a peep. Rolls back over. Goes to sleep. Apparently pukes again. Goes back to sleep again. Comes into your room after sunrise, grinning from ear, sufficiently coated, in barf. Chunked in the hair. On his face. And smelling ripe. Ready for the day.
Five year old. Raises a stink that his comfy, temporary sick bay was cleared and disinfected while he slept.
Two year old. Into the shower. Wants “wadddddderrrrr”. Over and over again.
Bedding. Into the wash. By the hands of daddy. Who has entered the Barf Den.
Baby. Sufficiently bathed in potato-water-stenched spit-up. Held upright all night in shifts. Rarin’ to go.
Mommy. Monitors water intake of said two year old. And waffle and liquid intake of, one day out from barf fest, 5 year old. And boob intake, of baby.
Daddy. Gives mom a high five. Says “Thanks for this crazy life”.
And it’s only 9 am.
This. Is Parenthood.
