I was tucked up with Harry (Potter, that is) when Bear came to bed.
House rules: The last adult to hit the bed checks on both the chicklets and leaves the bedroom doors open. (Miss Ears-Like-A-Bat is usually dead to the world by then, and that way blah blah blah air circulation etc)
I was flipping my light out when B came back in, grabbed a flashlight, and left again, saying "I think Rosey tossed up."
He was back in a minute. Clicking his flashlight off, he sat on the bed. "Yup, she threw up. It's in her hair."
And sat on the bed. And sat on the bed. A beat. He raised his eyes to mine. "She's all dirty, Jess."
It was a few seconds before I could wrap my head around the fact that he had seen that she was laying in her own vomitus and had come back to tell me. And now wanted me to clean her up.
B is historically bad with vomit. I understand that, although I'd be lying if I said I was okay with it.
By the time I woke Rosey up, bathed and changed her, stripped and remade her bad, he was snoring. Snoring.
R is a real Daddy's Girl, though, so she took care of that. B woke up suddenly, with one of R's fingers stuck up his nose, his snurfs and snorts delighting her into giggles. He took her downstairs and gave her some (watered-down) 7-up and rocked her for a bit.
While I went to bed.
Yesterday, before all this sicky stuff started:
All hail the frog princess!
(And I know web safety protocol frowns upon full-face photos of the kids for security reasons. She looks nothing like this.Weird angle, goggles compressing face, etc.)