I hate throwing up. Hate. But over the last two days I have discovered that it is infinitely worse to watch your child throw up. Fifteen times or so. I had the opportunity to closely compare the two experiences Thursday night (me) and very early Friday morning (Mia). And then again Friday night and this morning (Mia again). We are plying her with Gatorade and me with wine and hoping we will all be well enough to host Christmas Eve tomorrow, although we have made the rule that all guests must wear jeans or sweatpants or risk being sent home to change. Mia and I will likely be wearing pajamas, because if I have to do one more load of laundry this week I'll, well. I'll vomit.
Speaking of laundry, beloved Monkey, who is Mia's constant bedtime companion, is currently enduring his first spin cycle to remove the odor of baby puke permeating his person. I sent Chris back to the store today to secure a duplicate Monkey, just in case, and there were none to be had. Pray for him. And for me. Mostly for me.