So all week I have been planning to do a major straightening up/cleaning out of our bedroom and my adjoining sewing room (a.k.a. dumping grounds), and I planned it all out for today, with my husband home to entertain the little man. I had finally stirred my stumps and gone up there to tackle the literal mountain that is our room, after getting Sammy set up playing the Wii, and up he came... and then up came his stomache, on our floor, and then in the toilet. And as I sat beside him on the bathroom floor wondering how/if I would accomplish anything today, Sammy turned to me, white as a sheet, and said, "Mommy, I'm so sorry I barfed on your floor." And my plans no longer mattered.
I mean, truthfully, any excuse not to do what I should be doing is a good one in my books, under normal circumstances. But when this tiny person, feeling wretched, hanging over a toilet heaving everything from his feet up and trembling like a little leaf, looks up at you and apologizes for barfing, well, NOTHING else matters.
So today is pajama day (not that I had intentions of it being otherwise). I'm going to sit with my bubba and try to make him feel better, and try not to think about the fact that he crawled into my bed beside me in the middle of the night, shared my pillow and breathed in my face :) Dear Lord, please don't let me puke.
