You Can’t Make This Stuff Up

Last Wednesday, we knew the Littlest Brewster wasn’t feeling well. I had had the stomach funk the previous weekend, so we figured she was coming down with something similar when she moped around all day and simply picked at her food.

It was my day to work late, so the DreadBrewer was in charge of bath and bedtime. I got home while they were in the bath and I could hear her giving him a hard time. Normally she loves bath time, but that night she was having no part in it. I helped DB get her lotioned up and in her PJs, kissed her good night, and off they went to her room for a bedtime bottle.

At this point, I thought, “You know? DB has been really great with the Littlest Brewster tonight. He deserves a treat.” So I changed into a pair of really tiny lace undies (and nothing else) and grabbed a stogie out of the humidor. I had some vague notion of lying there suggestively when DB came out of the Littlest Brewster’s room.

All of a sudden I hear, “Oh shit!! Kristen!!!!” I toss the cigar on the dresser and run into LB’s room to find…

DB and the Littlest Brewster absolutely covered in vomit. There is throw up everywhere. And she’s sobbing hysterically and reaching out for me.

So I grab her blanket and wrap her up in it before picking her up off his lap. (All the while, DB is looking at me like, “What the hell are you doing in here in nothing but your underwear?!?”) I’m patting her back and trying to calm her down while trying to figure out what to do next when…

The Littlest Brewster proceeds to projectile vomit all over me too.

Now, under normal circumstances, your clothes provide not only a level of protection between you and the vomit, but also serve to sort of “catch” it and keep it off the floor. Not so when you’re essentially naked.

I’m standing there, holding a screaming 15-month old, with upchuck just sliding down my body and onto the floor, next to my husband who is also covered in upchuck, and all I could think was, “What in God’s name am I supposed to do now?”

With as much dignity and grace as I could muster, I slogged from LB’s room, through our room and bathroom, and got us into the shower. Eventually everyone was cleaned up, the toddler was comforted and put to bed, and large pints of beer were poured for the understandably frazzled adults.

At which point the DreadBrewer looks at me and says, “Do we still get to have sex?”

11 thoughts on “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up

  1. Pingback: You can’t make this stuff up, part two | BeerCat Brewing

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