What’s that theory called?

You know the one.  The one that says that the universe will send the same kinds of people or situations your way until you get the lesson that you need to learn.  Only then will those types of people and situations stop coming around demanding your energy.  I need to file a complaint with the judges in charge of that phenomenon.  Because my kids keep barfing all over me, and, truthfully, I don’t think I could handle it any better.  Just this morning, for example, at 4 am, after two hours of caring for Willow while she fussed and said, "ow ow ow," I sensed that I was about to be covered in puke.  So, holding Willow, I sprinted toward the bathroom, hoping to get her close to the toilet but praying she wouldn’t hit my copy of Bust (the "Men we love" copy at that!) on the top of the tank.  We didn’t make it through the doorway, even.  I was covered; pajamas, feet, hair (my hair is down to my butt, so that’s more of a mess than it sounds).  She got the carpet, the bathroom floor, the bathmat.  Most spectacular was the door, though.  It looked like it had been hit with the farmer’s slop bucket.  I made John help me because, honestly, if he weren’t home I would have had to call the fire department or something.  He started the bath for us, and cleaned up all the barf while I sat in the tub with my ghostly-pale and quiet girl, worrying that she was anemic again while trying to keep my hair out of the water until John came to get her out.  Once she was out, I dunked my hair and got it sort of clean.  I decided to wait until morning, or later in the morning anyway, to shower, because I needed to get everyone back to sleep.  So, I got Willow and myself into fresh jammies, wrapped my wet, stinky hair in a bath towel, grabbed a big, clean towel for just-in-case, and set up camp on the couch with Willow, where we both got some of that unsatisfying upright sleep. 

I am so tired.  As soon as Sophie is shuffled off to preschool, Willow and I are taking a big fat juicy nap.  I’m going to close the curtains and turn off the phone.  If there’s an emergency the school can call somebody else this time. 

4 thoughts on “What’s that theory called?

  1. Lin

    Poor you, poor little Willow. Just when I get all nostalgic for those young years of my own children, I’m reminded of just why being a nana suits me to the ground!


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