Just another Manic Monday

 I double-dog dare you to read the following account of my day so far and say that your Monday morning was worse than mine...

1. Seven AM, alarm clock goes off. Hard time getting up. And by "hard" I really mean "completely impossbile." Jeff has to repeatedly pry covers from my kung-fu grip and physically force me into the shower today. (have I mentioned that I am beyond exhausted & sleep-deprived lately?)

2. Get out of shower, and miraculously I'm feeling much better!  Completely refreshed & almost as enthusiastic as the post-shower actors from the mid-eighties Zestfully clean commercials.  And as an added bonus, no sore throat today! (I had a bad cold all last week and woke up with my throat on fire most days.)  Brush my teeth, gargle, floss. Fantasize about actually wearing something other than a member of the yoga/sweat pant family today-- maybe even (gasp) - a pair of jeans and a sweater?? Feeling like a (half) a million bucks...  Hey, things are looking up!

3. Saunter into living room post-shower (with a kid-size towel clinging to my body for dear life, since I accidentally grabbed one of Ava's) where Jeff is sitting with the kiddos, and am about to express how good I am feeling today... when Ava begins coughing, gagging, eyes watering- Oh, dear God, I know what this means...  And before I have time to react, it comes.  The vomit. Profuse vomit. Apple-juice & last-night's hamburger vomit. More gagging, dry-heaving, tears-in-her-eyes, Momma, please help me vomit. And more juicy, phlegm-y coughs. And vomit. And coughs, coughs, coughs.

4. Immediately drop too-small towel from my torso to the floor in hopes that the rest of said vomit makes it onto that instead of rug, floors, etc...  and gently begin to rub her back & tie her hair in a ponytail for her while the rest of the vomiting ensues. (Am suddenly brought back to my college drinking days, and realize that I've assumed this same back-rubbing, hair-holding position for many a drunk buddy on the floor of toilet stall in sketchy fraternity bathroom...)

5.  Strip Ava out of her soggy, yucky nightgown and now the both of us are standing in the living room naked, in a pile of phlegm-y vomit.  Realize at this exact moment that living room shades are up and that sketchy old guy (who resembles the long-lost twin brother of the Gordon's fisherman ) is walking his heinous Italian greyhound right by our window. I duck immediately, stepping in slippery pool of vomit.

6. Hobble down the hallway with wet, vomit-y foot, change Ava into new nightgown, and throw some sweatpants & a tank-top on myself (there goes exciting clothing fantasy expressed in #2 above), and set Aves up on the comfy recliner with the only things that are going to help us through this day: a Nick Jr. Dora marathon, her gock, and the infamous blue vomit bucket.

(honestly, have you ever seen anything sadder than this?)  

:-(

7. Call school to inform them she will not be attending, and then call Mass General to make appt. with her Pediatric Pulminologist who wanted to see her back immediately in the event that she produced a phlegm-y, juicy, vomit-inducing cough again this soon. (we were just there 5 weeks ago).

8. Awesome receptionist, who can hear Ava's juicy cough/wheezing/gagging in the background as we are speaking, agrees to double-book the Dr. to fit her in. Thank you GOD, because I know tonight isn't going to be pretty unless we start her on something soon...

9. Jeff leaves for work. No sooner do I hear his car pull out of the driveway when Gav decides to spit up ALL OVER me as I am holding him. A wonderful medley of warm, chunky formula (which, for those of you non-parents out there, is not a pleasant aroma), pureed bananas, and Gerber strawberry puffs.  Into my hair (which happens not to be pulled back in a ponytail at this exact moment since I took it out to tie Ave's hair back during 8am vom-fest), all down my neck, and even mysteriously creeping down the front of me & into my cleavage. Sexy, I know.

10.  Put Gav in his crib so that I can strip my clothing and change myself  into (wait for it...) JAMMIES!  My 4-minute long dream of dressing in something other than sweats/jammies today is squashed. Sorry, jeans...looks like another cold, lonely day in the closet for you.

11. Sit on couch in jammies for 10 minutes of "me" time to type this entry... And in this time, Gav (who has remained mysteriously quiet in his Exersaucer for the duration of this, less a few grunting noises),  has managed to accomplish a MASSIVE poop in his diaper (I can smell it from here), and Ava continues to cough juicy coughs, grabbing onto her "throw-up bucket" each time in fear that she might vomit again.


In conclusion, allow me to paint you a picture of my current circumstance:  I  smell like eau de sour milk (can't buy that one at Sephora), I am wearing over-sized jammies from my maternity days, and my house reeks of poopy diaper.  Please tell me that 10:43am on a Monday isn't an inappropriate hour to dive into a box of wine to help me survive the next several hours of: