Our Israel Quinn is sixteen months old and slept through the entire night for the first time last night. We snuggled in my soft and cozy bed at 7:30 last night. We read about Pete the Cat's school shoes and his four groovy buttons a couple of million times. Izzy hit the dairy bar for a bit and then it was off to dream land. It was FIVE in the MORNING before he wanted to nurse again, which he did. Then he rolled over onto his back and threw up, soaking his hair, shirt, and bed. He instantly climbed on me for a snuggle and fell asleep on top of me before I had a chance to address any of the mess.
There I was, flat on my back, staring at my ceiling, with my soggy puke baby between me and my blankets. I thought love was going to be different than this.
Twelve hours after we hopped into bed Israel is on his third costume change. I need to get the laundry going and my rug looks clean but I'm already dreaming about shampooing it once I can set this little fella down again.
Here on my love seat, where I'm sure I'll be all day long, I have to wonder who is running things around here? I'd like to file a complaint. I'd like to drop an index card in the planetary suggestion box. Let's reschedule puking season to summer. How much easier would this be in a lawn chair? How simple would this be if I.Q. was naked? He could empty his stomach on the grass and I could hose us off if any got on us. Instead I'll be washing his clothes and blankets for the next EVER, and renting that clunky Rug Doctor to clean up after this bug.
Lame. Lame. Lame. It is time for a CHANGE (and not just his clothes)!