Our day began with a breakfast vomit. My youngest, a whole 2.45 years of age barfed up every cup of milk consumed in the past 12 hours plus a few remnants of mac n'cheese. We spent the rest of the day in hibernation.
By evening I was desperate to fill her tummy with something. Anything. In the past 8 hours she had consumed a total of 2 cups of milk (probably gonna see that again), 1 cup of Gatorade (maybe a creamy shade of pink), and 6 Tinkerbell gummies. I was expecting a whole rainbow of regurgitation on our new white rug any second...
She refused dinner which, if they were smart, everyone in the family should have refused because it was hardly edible (cooked by yours truly). I offered her an after dinner hot dog which she promptly rejected. Big Sis had requested dessert..."Cake!" squeaked the emaciated toddler from her blanketed ANTI-VOMIT throne on the sofa (an afterthought, really).
It was like that first beer after a long surf, an immediate buzz. The cake hit her empty belly and dull, dreary, sleepy Ana transformed before our eyes into flittering bouncing happiness with a Dr. Evil Giggle after one too many hits from the silly balloon.
"Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!" If Munchkinland ever had a bad seed in their county, I'm pretty sure she recently escaped on a tiny bubble and landed in my living room.
We tried story time. She tried the high jump on her new mattress. We tried bed time. She tried a laser show: slinging stars around the room from her ladybug nightlight in various shades and announcing, "Dreen!" "Poorple!" and "Red! Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!".
When John and I were sure the oldest was sound asleep, we left Dr. Evil to her vices and headed for bed. The clock blaring 9:48.
Minutes later, the speedy pitter patter of sugar high led her bolting around the foot of our bed. Thankfully, to John's side, where he pulled her up beside him. And then she announced, "My have a poopy diapah! Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!"
John rolled his eyes and facetiously inquired, "Who are YOU?"
To which she offered in her highest, cutest lil munchkinland voice, "I'm Ana, Daddy! Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!"
By evening I was desperate to fill her tummy with something. Anything. In the past 8 hours she had consumed a total of 2 cups of milk (probably gonna see that again), 1 cup of Gatorade (maybe a creamy shade of pink), and 6 Tinkerbell gummies. I was expecting a whole rainbow of regurgitation on our new white rug any second...
She refused dinner which, if they were smart, everyone in the family should have refused because it was hardly edible (cooked by yours truly). I offered her an after dinner hot dog which she promptly rejected. Big Sis had requested dessert..."Cake!" squeaked the emaciated toddler from her blanketed ANTI-VOMIT throne on the sofa (an afterthought, really).
It was like that first beer after a long surf, an immediate buzz. The cake hit her empty belly and dull, dreary, sleepy Ana transformed before our eyes into flittering bouncing happiness with a Dr. Evil Giggle after one too many hits from the silly balloon.
"Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!" If Munchkinland ever had a bad seed in their county, I'm pretty sure she recently escaped on a tiny bubble and landed in my living room.
We tried story time. She tried the high jump on her new mattress. We tried bed time. She tried a laser show: slinging stars around the room from her ladybug nightlight in various shades and announcing, "Dreen!" "Poorple!" and "Red! Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!".
When John and I were sure the oldest was sound asleep, we left Dr. Evil to her vices and headed for bed. The clock blaring 9:48.
Minutes later, the speedy pitter patter of sugar high led her bolting around the foot of our bed. Thankfully, to John's side, where he pulled her up beside him. And then she announced, "My have a poopy diapah! Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!"
John rolled his eyes and facetiously inquired, "Who are YOU?"
To which she offered in her highest, cutest lil munchkinland voice, "I'm Ana, Daddy! Mwaahhaha-haha-haha!"
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