For the second time in the span of one week, the early hours of this morning found me doing multiple loads of laundry. The stomach bug that has been running rampant through kindergarten and caught Mia last week finally felled Owen at 4:00 this morning. Fortunately, Owen wants Daddy when he is sick, so I got to return to my own bed once the sheets were changed and the laundry started, but I cannot listen to a vomiting child without bolting up to help, so there wasn't much rest had by anyone. (I feel I must point out that Chris is perfectly happy to sleep when I am tending to a night of Mia vomit. He has many other good qualities, though.)
Owen is better, we think, knock wood, etc. And as we were shuffling the short people off to bed tonight, Mia said to him "Good night, Owen. Don't f up." Yup. Good night and don't f up. And I'm wondering which charming kindergarten classmate taught my child to say f up, but I play it so cool. I ask her to repeat herself, yup, don't f up. And then I feign total confusion. But Mia, what does that mean? I don't understand.
You know, she says. Don't frow up, but it is more polite to say f up than frow up. Mia still has trouble with the "th" sound. So when she wants to council her younger brother to try not to vomit, she advises that he not f up.
I couldn't even look at Chris for fear we would both be on the floor having hysterics, and it almost made up for all the times today that I actively encouraged Owen to vomit all over me (really doesn't bother me anymore at this point, made it easier for him, oh the 21 year old me would lie down and die if she knew).
Don't f up, people. Mia says so.