Sorry about the title. I couldn't help myself. I've had very little entertainment over the past two days besides coming up with that, and experimenting with bleach and water solution ratios.
After my very excitedly written post about my plans to go to a REAL ROCK CONCERT the other night, tickets courtesy of a contest I won right here on THIS VERY WEBSITE, by the way, I am now writing a much more mundane post about puking. Unfortunately, said puke was not puked by a rockstar on stage, but instead by Diva all over her bed.
This is not the first time my children's gastrointestinal pyrotechnics have interfered with my plans. Just a couple of months ago, I was LITERALLY on my way out to the car to drive to a Pampered Chef party (to spend time with friends I hadn't seen in months, and while my husband was on the second half of a two week business trip and I was in desperate need of a break) when Diva literally threw up all over me. And don't get me started on the FPIES-caused changes in plans over the course of Hunk's almost two years. Like sleeping on a regular schedule, for instance.
If the concert itself didn't make me feel I've wiled away my youth on more un-glamorous endeavors these past ten years, cleaning up after a pooping, vomiting, hyperdramatic child when I was SUPPOSED to be at a concert certainly did. (Diva is NOT one to suffer in silence – even for a four-year-old she is hilariously histrionic. Except if it's 4 a.m. and I haven't slept since 1 a.m. and I have to get up at 7 a.m. to care for Hunk. Then she's HORRIBLY histrionic.
No matter. Semantics.)
Anyhow, funny story:
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