Warning: Post Rated R for language, bodily humor, and partial nudity

Hmmm....in light of my last post, I wonder what that title is going to do. But I'm serious, you oughtta be sitting down and not drinking a latte for what I'm about to spill.

This afternoon, I got some cuddles. Which is odd, because the Pickle is not a cuddler. And he seemed overly juicy, that is to say he was drooling non-stop. I peeped in his mouth to see if he was cutting some new teeth, only to find the back of his throat white and splotchy and his breath rank. (No wonder he didn't want to split that 3 Muskateers bar with me!)

So we headed to the Dr's. Not strep and no trick or treating for us as we've got a fever. I'm horribly disappointed. Henry could care less as he'd just as soon eat sidewalk chalk, but I'm totally deflated. But I digress....

So I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to pick up some drinkable yogurts, Gatorade, and more Children's Motrin for H and then hit the Ukrop's salad bar for me. The following story is why I am now eating a Mango-Mushroom-Cole Slaw-Beef Lo Mein Garlic Expressions Vinaigrette Salad.

By the time we get home, Henry is asleep in his car seat. So I rush into the house, praying I can disrobe, re-diaper, and pajama the boy all without him waking up. I leave the groceries in the car, the car door open, and oh yeah, for good measure--I leave our front door wide open too. And I'm thinking this is okay because really, how long is this bed-timing going to take. 3 minutes?

Well. The pickle wakes up, and is just barely comatose. But still, huge tears are running down his cheeks. So I change the diaper, put on footy pajamas (so I don't have to worry about socks when we head to the airport in an hour to pick up Sloan), and decide to hit him up with a couple dropper fulls of Baby Tylenol to help his throat. In hindsight, I probably should've forgone the Tylenol. Or at least not given it to him while he was lying down.

So I pick him up and begin to sing "Jesus Loves Me." And then he starts to gag. I think, ugh, I'm going to get the Tylenol spit up all over me. Wrong. He pukes on me. And then screams. And then pukes again. And again. And again. And it is grosser than gross. Think of what vomit smells like. Now add the smell of Applewood Smoked Cheddar Cheese and this is what I have all over me. What I have on my face. In my underwear. On my shoes. All over the carpet in Henry's room. (Like his room didn't smell like poop already. Come on! Do they even make enough Fabreze?)

I'm covered in orange vomit. Henry is covered in orange vomit. (How seasonal.) And I don't know what to do. "Shit!" I mumble. "Shit. Shit. Damn it, Sloan. I need you!" Because I'm standing in a pool of vomit, holding Henry, waiting for the aftershocks and I can't decide what to do first--clean Henry or clean myself. I'm afraid to move because, oh yeah, I forgot to mention, there are chunks of the smoked cheddar and bits of what I'm assuming are Whole Grain Ritz cracker (because we are high dollar snackers here at the Phillips house), and I'm fearful that if I walk I'll drip. And then Henry goes and spews chunks again. Praise Jesus his missed his crib.

Option A: I clean myself up first. But this means putting Henry down, giving him the opportunity to toddle off, dripping and chunking all over the upstairs. Option B: Clean up Henry first and ignore the fact that the smoky goodness has started to pool in my sports bra. I chose option C: stripped us both down in Henry's bathroom and plop him down in the bath. I could wash up in the sink while he soaked.

In theory, this was the only option available to me. When I took off my sports bra, there was an audible splash on the floor. And there were bits of cheese just sitting there. Smelling smoky.
I start the tub and forget to turn on the cold, so I practically burn Henry, only noticing this because he climbs up my naked body to save himself.
Well, not completely naked. I'm wearing my socks and shoes.
So I turn on the cold and wait, praying he doesn't pee on me too because then I'll just cry. And I'm reminded of a blog entry I read where a Mom is worried about choking death on a Tootsie Roll while her husband is out of town. I thought she was just being funny, but really, I could accidentally die right now. And die naked. In the bathroom. Like Elvis or something.
And to make matters worse, as I put Henry in the tub, I realize I'm standing there in the buff, bent over, with the bathroom door wide open, and I can see out into the driveway. Through the front door.

Now I have to decide if I want to be robbed while I'm naked covered in vomit or if I want Henry to drown. Because I can't close the front door without leaving Henry unattended in the tub. I compromised by closing the door to Henry's bathroom. At least if I'm robbed the thieves don't have to see me and my son's birthday suits in all their dimpled glory. (Cute on Henry, me--not so much.)

I decide I can safely wash up in the sink in Henry's bathroom because I can see him in the mirror. Except, as I'm washing my face with Lavender Baby Wash, I noticed there are dime sized chunks of cheese in my hair. I start to gag. I'm going to have to take a shower. I notice there are also chunks of cheese and cracker floating in the tub. I gag again. It just smells so smokin' bad. I may never be horny again. Ugh.

I put Henry in a diaper, put him down in the hallway, pray he doesn't fall down the steps or find a puddle of vomit to play in. Instead he stands and screams bloody murder as I scurry around to find a robe, dash down the steps, grab the groceries (not paying attention to how I'm carrying them, making my salad bar items fall out of their compartments and blob together), toss said groceries in the kitchen, shut the car door (because I forgot the first time), and then shut the front door. None of this feels good when not wearing a bra. Especially when you have sticky, stinky boobs. Now you may never be horny again. Sorry.

But I got the pickle dressed again and put him to sleep. No more medicine. I'll see if he needs some Motrin when we get back from the airport. And I'll give it to him while he is sitting up.

Shockingly, (because you haven't been shocked already), Henry didn't scream or cry at all when I put him down in his crib. Just curled up with Mr. Bunny and shut his eyes.

I think he'd seen enough.