Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Emmalyne, whose dream came true one day when we were given SEVERAL dozen sugar cookies in the shape of shamrocks, and covered with green icing. Wow! Right?
Now, a smart parent would have probably taken possession of these cookies and put them directly in the freezer to be rationed out over the course of the next few decades...which was my plan, but "later" and "after a little while," and "let's watch a movie first..." I mean, the cookies were fine for a few hours. I'll do it later...
Of course, the children were munching on them, including sweet little Emmalyne. It was a rare treat and I wasn't concerned if they indulged a bit.
Someone in this story is a dumbass...have you guessed? No? Get ready.
So, bedtime comes and I see Emmalyne is missing. I thought she might be in with her brother, but no. He had not seen her. After a look, I see her curled up in her bed, clutching her favorite doll, fast asleep. I covered her up, gave her smooches on her little pink cheek and the house settled for bed.
I have this little habit at 3:00 a.m. of coming partially conscious for no real reason. Usually I just roll over and go back to sleep. This morning was no different. I lay there and heard creaking on the steps. I assumed it was Rebecca going down to the bathroom. The TV was still on, so I knew Curt was awake. I dozed a bit and a few seconds later, Emma walks into my bedroom.
Me: What's the matter Peanut?
Emma: I think I'm sick.
Having only one bathroom in the house, It is imperative for the sick to live downstairs. I started to get up to help her do just that, when...
All hell broke loose. My beautiful little baby turned right into a shamrock-green spewing factory of smelly hell and I was helpless to stop the carnage. I ripped clothes out of my dresser to try to lessen the mess, but to no avail. Emma turned into a lawn sprinkler in the middle of my bedroom.
I finally gave up and just hugged her until it was over, picked her up and sent her into the shower, pajamas and all, and hosed off. YUCK.
We get washed up, new pajamas, and I set her on the couch with a pillow, a softie blanket and a bucket with strict instructions to AIM FOR THE BUCKET PLEASE.
Curtis Edwards asks, "Is Tiny sick?"
I would actually glow green under a black light at this point. I smell like dead leprechauns. Yeah. Yep. She's sick.
Interestingly, Emma originally had went down into the bathroom to be sick, did not tell her father, but instead gagged a bit before going back upstairs to mom. Hm.
It is now 11:00 a.m. and I am finally washing the last blanket from my bed. Emmalyne says, "I feel lots better now." and even though I have washed my hands and arms 300 times, I still smell like leprechaun barf.
So I ask little Miss Adventure this morning, finally able to sit down with a decent cup of coffee,
"Are we going to eat any more of those cookies?"
Emma: "No way. I am only eating healthy things."
"Mama? Can I have some ice cream?"