On Saturday night, we went to a Christmas party for kids. Santa was there.
And don't get all excited to see a delicious picture of Olivia screaming her fool head off on Santa's lap. She freaking loved Santa! He gave her a candy cane and she was all, "I want a Barbie Hot Tub Palace and a $200 gift card to Baby Gap, and I also want to yank on your beard. Kthxbai."
The party was a success for everyone involved, until Olivia barfed on the floor.
The evening started off swimmingly. After three families showed up with kids dressed in their Christmas finest, I had to send Mark home to get Olivia's Christmas getup. Because I am not competent enough to realize that you dress your kid in her Christmas dress at a Christmas party, and so I put her in a pink and navy blue dress with leggings OH MY GOD.
The thought crossed my mind before we left. But, I was afraid that she would spit up on her dress and then be dressless on Christmas. Which, HA.HA.Motherfucking HA.
So, yeah. Olivia puked pizza.
Now, this isn't Mark's version of puke, which is a tiny bit of spit up. This was...projectile. Rank. Chunky. VOMIT.
This was...all over me, the carpet, the toys. Luckily? No children were drenched in the Great Christmas Barf of 09. Luckily? Three of our friends were there to wipe me off and bring me a towel.
Olivia has only done one other actual VOMIT. Both times I was totally mature and responsible, and yelled "HALP! HALP! HAAAAAALP!" And you know how people always say that it won't be gross when it's your kid? Yeah, that's total bullshit. It was completely disgusting.
The thing is, is that I didn't care. I felt bad for her. Awful. I went to Walgreens with vomit all over my pants and sweater to buy a new rectal thermometer (ours broke*) and some Pedialyte.
The girl in line in front of me sniffed the
You'll remember that Olivia shat on someone's floor, too. It's like she's going for some sort of bodily function trifecta. I don't even want to know what the third part is...
So this was all on Saturday. Sunday she was not her usually peppy self, but she was playing and eating and PEEING, which is key, apparently. And then Sunday night when I put her to bed I was all, she's fiiiiiiine.
Then she had massive diarrhea in her sleep, all over her crib. And then she threw up. And then she dry heaved. And then we all died. The end.
Oh, but seriously. How sad is a sick baybee? SO SAD, that's how sad.
I was up most of the night with her Sunday, and managed to drag my bedraggled*** (not bedazzled) ass to work for a half day. My mom stayed with Olivia so that I could go in and clear out my inbox. I finished an entire day of work in 4 hours. I don't know if that means I was a superstar on Monday, or if I am a lazy bitch waste of space on a normal day.
She seemed OK on Monday night. Tuesday was a good day. I'm hoping we're over the worst of it. But I know you've been waiting for a good poop story, so, you're welcome.
Quite possibly completing the trifecta at this very moment...
Photo: Portrait Innovations; Dress: Gymboree, may it rest in peace.
*Just rereading, and WTF? Why do I feel the need to tell you ours broke? So you don't think we lost it in a rectum? Or that we use it in our mouths now?
**I was a Walgreens employee after college, at a 24 hour store. You'd be surprised at the late night clientele. Or not surprised. Whatever. One time, this old lady came in the store at 2 a.m. and she walked a circle around the store while she pooped her pants. It ran down her leg, and left a trail of poop. I'm not even kidding at all.
***5 minutes before I had to leave, I finished drying my hair and realized it was an oil slick. I forgot to rinse my conditioner. Too late, went to work with my roots all separated. I'm sure they are going to send me a $10,000 bonus just for trying so hard to look like a stone cold fawx.