In January 1992, at 1:00 a.m., one very tired mom (me!) heard a cough. I bolted from my sleep to a standing/running position and in one leap made it to the bathroom and flipped on the light to find my 6-year old daughter sitting on the edge of the tub. The stuff from her tummy was all over the floor, the lid of the toilet, and herself. I proceeded to clean the floor and surrounding areas, then prepared to wash Sarah.

As I turned on the shower, Sarah said, “Mom,” with a wrinkled nose and a hesitant voice, “I threw up on Collett too.”

Collett is her 9-year-old sister, who happens to share the bed. I closed the curtain and ran to see. I met Collett in the hall way, and she said Sarah had thrown up on her. I turned on the bedroom light and much to my amazement, there was the dreaded sight of Sarah’s dinner on five blankets, two pillows, two sheets, a baby blanket, and Collett’s pajamas.

I bundled it all up into the bottom sheet and placed it at the back door. I put fresh bedding on the bed and placed a bucket beside Sarah, then I crawled back in my own bed. At which time, my well-covered, half-asleep husband inquired, “What’s wrong?”

 

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