Karma's a Bitch. Then you step in puke.

When I was younger, I had a very sensitive stomach, especially in the evening hours.  My poor mother.  She put me on the top bunk and I swear I barfed in that bed at least once per week on average.  But she never made me move to the bottom bunk, where I believe it would have been a whole lot easier to clean up?

Anyhow, she always told me that she herself had a sensitive stomach as a child and therefore she used to cut out most everything that I could eat after 6:30 pm.  I remember she would never let me eat nuts, unless I "chew them up really fine", and I couldn't eat apples as I puked them up once or twice.  I think I was limited to a piece of dry toast or crackers if I was hungry after supper.

For all those brown, chunky, puke stains I made my mom clean up during all hours of the night, karma has once again proven to be a bitch and I find myself  (or send my husband??) cleaning up puke more often than not recently.  A few night ago, my oldest son G woke us up and told us he barfed in a bucket in his room.  I have to give the kid credit, he has great aim.  He has a permanent puke bucket in his room due to my own childhood issues, and the few times he's yakked, he's been a good shot.

Last night however, we sent him to bed after eating a good load of super-buttery popcorn (you'd think we'd learn?) and as he was having a sleep over with his best friend, we let both boys sleep on the floor of his room in their sleeping bags.  At 4:45 am, I am awakened by a vomit-breathed little boy telling me he just puked on his floor, and then in the toilet.  I woke my husband up and we started collecting the cleaning supplies:  garbage can, paper towels, rags, carpet cleaning spray and Febreeze.  As we walked into his bedroom, trying hard not to wake the sleeping friend, the room absolutely wreaked of sour vomit, and I had to start breathing through my mouth to avoid a gag.  I started to look around for this vomit pile and couldn't see one.  I peered over the bed, and in doing so, took a step closer to the sleeping bag where Gage had been sleeping.  I still didn't see any vomit, so I turned toward the door and in doing so....
slowly stepped in a pile of barf.
In my bare feet.

Bathroom Buffet

Good Lord. I say it over and over and over again. There is never a dull moment 'round these parts!  I took 10 minutes to put clothes away in a bedroom and during that time my children were creating an all-you-can-eat vegetable buffet in the sink of my downstairs bathroom!  As I walked out of said bedroom, I see one 3 year old walking down the stairs with a pack of tortillas and the other 3 year old with a wooden spoon and spatula...
When I followed them downstairs, I knew it wouldn't be good. I found my oldest in the bathroom, washing carrots and broccoli in a sink full of water.
First of all,  I am extremely repulsed by bathroom sinks. Not a whole lot bothers me and I'm nowhere near a "germaphobe". However the location in which one spits their toothpaste gargle is not the same place where one should be washing food designated for eating. Secondly, my oldest son (vegetable washer boy) is home from school ill today with the diarrhea!  Therefore, he shouldn't be handling food meant for consumption today, regardless of where it is prepared.
The mess was minimal, and really did make me smile, however I just can't help but roll my eyes and wonder, "What next?"

One of Those Days...

Today is one of those days where I want to utilize Facebook for what so many others do, but I bitch about. I want to update my status to say something about my naughty kids, or even to list the 15 things I did actually get done today despite how bratty my twins are being. But I have heavy weights on my shoulders preventing me from typing anything about my kids that would make me sound even the least bit ungrateful.

You see, at this current moment my Facebook friends list consist of several families grieving the loss of a child or close friends' child, parents struggling with a medical mystery with one of their children, a baby with a possible fatal heart condition, and one friend separating from her husband. And that's just a few of my many Facebook "friends" who would read my post.

What right do I have to bitch or complain about my kids?

I just wish it was okay to vent, complain about my healthy, happy, well-fed, (mostly) well-rested, naughty, bratty, mischievous, utterly exhausting twin sons...

Without feeling guilty.

Oh.  I just did.