This morning Wyatt finally came up to our room after sleeping on the couch all night. “What is that?” he asked? I didn’t even open my eyes. “Spit up.” I told him. “Go get a towel.”
Wyatt put a towel over the puddle of spit up, laid down and went back to sleep. I was already sleeping on a towel of my own. Everett projectiled on both sides of the bed last night.
Two nights ago I was rocking baby Everett in my chair, Wyatt was wrapping up a diaper to take outside. “When did this become our life?” he wondered. “Diapers and spit up . . . I mean, look, you have spit up on the shoulder of your brand new sweatshirt.”
I decided that wasn’t the best moment to tell him how Everett had peed all over me earlier that day . . . when I was wearing his pajamas.
Last week Calvin came into the bed in the middle of the night. I didn’t think anything of it, and cuddled him close through the night. Then at some point he started to dry heave, a sound that sends alarms through my body. From the dead of sleep I jumped up, grabbed him, and ran in the blind dark to the toilet. There was vomit on his jammies, and my shirt, but I thought I had rescued my bed. When I returned to inspect the sheets, I found no vomit on them or the pillow Cal was sleeping on. But I did find two fist sized spots . . . on the pillow I had been sleeping on. They were already crusty, giving evidence to the fact that they were from earlier in the night. Who knows how long I had been sleeping on it.
So yes. This is our life. Spit up and vomit and diapers and body fluid. And cuddles and sleepy babies and lovies.