Day 5 of 9, Late Night Edition

Fat Moother is fine. I had to wait a half hour in the parking lot and then another 20 minutes in the ER waiting room before they let me pick her up. Seems the hospital was on lockdown because someone pulled a gun in the maternity ward and then started running around with it. Eventually, he went outside, and they locked down the hospital so as to not let anyone in or out.

If I had known the reason they asked me to wait in the van was because there was a crazed gunman running around outside, I might have driven somewhere else to wait. But they didn't tell me.

They actually drove everybody to their cars, one at a time. Even though I was parked just 100 yards from the entrance, and even though they had made me sit in that very car for a half hour already, I wasn't allowed to walk back to it with Fat Moother.

Whatever.

When I got back home, I made myself some tea. If I were The JohnnyB, I would have just whined a lot until someone made me tea. But that's how it works in his house. His wife is an enabler. My wife, on the other hand, is not. This is how it went in my house:

The Mrs.: "Are you making yourself some tea?"
Me, CherkyB: "Yes. My throat is killing me."
The Mrs.: "Make HannieC some, too."
The Mrs.: "Decaffeinated."
Me, CherkyB: "Where's Dave?" [editor's note: Dave is the name of our teapot. It's a long story.]
The Mrs.: "I don't know. Just make yourself a cup of tea. Dave doesn't hold more than that anyways. Why can't you just make the tea and forget about Dave? Is that so hard? Jeeze. Make sure HannieC's is decaffeinated."

So I made myself a mug of tea and a mug for HannieC, too. I had the mug almost to my lips when I heard that wonderful sound of someone barfing. It was MaxieC upstairs. The Mrs. was with him. I set my mug down and waited for the sound to stop. Then I went upstairs to see if there was something for me to clean up.

There was, as it turns out. MaxieC had managed to explosively poop out the top of his diaper, up his back, and down his sleeve. The kind of thing a milk-fed newborn does, only he's almost three and much, much bigger. He was not at all happy about this.

Neither was I.

The Mrs. informed me that she was going to sleep on the floor next to MaxieC (who had moved to the floor due to him barfing all over his bed while I was sitting in the van being bait for a crazed gunman). This was the best news of the day. Better than the shower not leaking.

I got her an old couch mattress we have that she likes to camp out on, and I brought her her three pillows and her teddy bear. Then she requested one of the spare comforters that's in the basement. So I went to the basement and picked out the nicest one. I looked at the other two and said to myself, "Self, you ought to bring those up, too, if you don't want to be making this trip two more times during the night."

But I didn't. I'm such an optimist.

I covered up The Mrs. and headed to the kitchen to drink my tea. Just as I got to MaxieC's door, I heard a wretch. I turned around and turned on the light. MaxieC had barfed on The Mrs.'s comforter.

God hates optimists.

I schlepped back to the basement, got the remaining two comforters, took them back to The Mrs., then I drank my tea. I drank it quickly.