In the Trenches

I sniper crawl out of the darkened room, praying for the furnace to turn on to mask any sounds I might make in my crawl to freedom.  I crawl past one of Ava's many art projects on the floor, it's just waiting for one false move to crinkle and crisp, ringing out like a gunshot to my light sleeper's little ears.  I don't have much time.  I need to sleep now since any moment I could hear the siren cry of my puking 11 month old from down the hall. 

The last twenty-four hours I've found myself in some sort of nightmare.  My normally sweet baby has been infected with some sort of an anti-food sickness in which all liquids and solids are almost immediately rejected.  The many post baths and batches of laundry have blurred together.  I can't tell you how much sleep I've gotten but it's between 1 and 5 hours. 

My torturer aka The Projectile Vominator has me in her clutches.  She clings to me and whines as I try to shop the cyber monday deals.  "Don't you want this soothe and glow seahorse?!  Can't you see Mama's trying to score a deal!"  She stares back with undeterred self-importance as if to say, put the computer down.  All attempts to carry on as normal are futile.  Don't you know who you're dealing with?  No one can escape the demands of The Projectile Vominator!  Well unless you're Daddy. 

What I wouldn't give today to be elbow deep in samples of urine, ready to be put through a series of tests to determine whether you've been smoking something and I don't mean Peyote.  Daddy works in a clinical drug testing lab.  Although I'm pretty sure that the D.A.R.E. officers at Ava's school are confused as to what Ava's daddy does at work.  The other day she came home and said, "Drugs are bad, mom!"  I concurred.  Then she said, "I told the man that Dad does drugs at work."  Nice. 

Some days as a mother you just have to see keeping your sanity as the big accomplishment for the day, especially when The Projectile Vominator invades your world.