If it's stuck, have at 'er...

Since Friday night, my husband and I have been taking turns wiping up vomit. In our glory days, it was usually our own however now that we've matured, we find ourselves assuming the role of responsible parenting. I tell you though, I have a gag reflex on me that makes 7-year-olds hawking loogies giggle. So when I ripped around the corner into the bathroom holding my precious daughter, who was in the throes of a heave, only to find myself 4 seconds too late, let's just say my beloved was called in to clean up the spatter, which incidentally was reminiscent of a scene from The Exorcist. How does a 2-year produce something like that?

In my bid for Mother-of-the-Year award, I share the following excerpt from the weekend.

"Jack, run, hurry! Go and grab me the puke bucket from upstairs for Peanut!"
"I can't, Mommy. I'm sick."
"You're not sick. Peanut's sick. Quit faking and run and get it. H.U.R.R.Y."

He dashed off, comes back with said puke bucket, deposits in at my feet in tears and states:

"You hurt my feelings, Mommy. What's rule #1 in this house? It's that we love each other. You're not loving me right now because I'm sick and you're making me do chores."

"Running to get a bucket for Mommy is not considered chores, honey. Stay tuned for that list."

What happened just hours later? We dashed out to meet some dear friends for supper - we were going to cancel but our sitter was like, "Dudes. I deal with much worse most days. Go. Be gone. Have fun." (Name of said sitter I shall never disclose because she's that wonderful, and we're not up for sharing her greatness...)

We arrived home a few hours later to find that Jack, the faker, had deposited the contents of his stomach onto the couch, afghan, throw cushions and everything else within a 5-yard radius. He was still up and he came running to me for a hug and said:

"See, Mommy. I wasn't faking."

Bless his cotton socks.

"Mommy owes you an apology, honey. I'm really sorry I didn't believe you. And I'm sorry for calling you a faker." You just reminded me so much of your Father providing excuses on cue when asked to help do something (other than scratch) during football play-offs, heaven forbid. What? Where was I?  

And the fun continued throughout the night - let's just say, I'm officially out of sheets.

So, at the moment, the house reeks to Clorox bleach, I'm midway through the piles of laundry, and all three are blissfully sleeping. As for those house rules? Yes, we've started a list. Rule #1 is that we always love each other. We're up to 14 rules, pending revision. I'll share the final list once we're ready to frame it and hang on the wall. I'll leave you with this video, depicting the importance of rule #6...no nose-picking. When I penned the initial draft of said rules, I reviewed them with Jack, asking for his input. When I read the one on nose-picking, he countered:

"But what if it's stuck? Then you have to pick."

Fair point. If it's stuck, have at 'er. If God hadn't intended for us to head on in there, he wouldn't have made our fingers fit so beautifully, as Peanut so wonderfully demonstrates in the following video.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, friends. Looks like winter has officially arrived. Now that's something that makes me want to hurl.