Hello my pretties.
So, the last few days in the Bookish Household have been filled with vomit. Not by me or by Rob. But by just about everyone else.
See this sweet face
She is evil, pure evil. She swiped a bag of chocolate chips (actually a half of a bag of the really big wholesale bags) AND a bag of sugar and consumed them on Thursday afternoon.
Action: Evil dog eats chocolate (which is lethal to some dogs),
Reaction: Dog pukes up a storm,
Reaction: Robby gets to clean it up.
Reaction: Dog meet vet, vet meet dog, Bookish Family meet poverty.
Three hours and $200 later (Merry Christmas Honey!) the dog has a stomach filled with charcoal (which apparently acts to slow the absorption of the lethal chemical) and is resting uncomfortably in the back of our vehicle as we race against time in fear of her barfing it all up again. Apparently this charcoal is tricky stuff as it stains like a mofo, as in, won’t ever come out stains. We’re, oh maybe, 2 miles from our house and this Evil Dog empties $200 worth of a vet visit onto our backseat where it will stay ingrained in our memory and our upholstery forever.
A half hour later I am picked up by Jackie and whisked away to YarnPants heaven. Others tell the story here and here. I too got a shirt (the one with the flying Dot, I love it!). I won’t be able to wear until next year but Smarty has (*finally*) been put into service.
Friday comes with new challenges. Rob returns home again to see that the Evil DOGS – yes this character has entered the fray –
have consumed an entire loaf of bread, a box of cereal, AND rolls of toilet paper! These previously docile and obedient dogs are climbing onto COUNTERS and TABLES to retrieve these treats. We soon discover that the cats seem to have gotten some action two because there is cat vomit all over our office – THE ONLY ROOM IN THE HOUSE WITH CARPET!
Feel. My. Pain. in the ass. I can’t bend over so much. I am sore from cleaning out the car the night before. We have about an hour before our favorite 20 month old, N, comes over for a slumber party (her first one, we are honored, thrilled, and justcan’twait).
Miraculously we get things in order before the sweet girl arrives. Sharp objects are stored, knitting is hidden, and all loose hand guns are put away. (N’s a grabby little girl.)
We eat, we build forts, we read books, we laugh. Bedtime comes and we slowly brush our teeth (read: play in the bathroom sink), change our diaper, and start to get ready for bed. I am with N helping her dress into her PJ’s when she turns into a veritable fountain of half digested stomach contents. Not wanting to move her for fear of spreading the molten lava I speak calmly and let her know she’s alright and that I’m alright and that she should most certainly just let it happen ALL OVER ME, as I am sitting at her feet holding her. She is scared (to the best of her memory it’s the first time she’s ever gotten sick) and the dogs are interested and Rob is AVOIDING THE ROOM.
Mount Vesuvius stops and I am able to get her into her extra pair of PJs and I hand her to Rob who reads her stories in the other room while I clean up. I check on them later and N is happy and chatty and fine. No fever. Nothing. Rob questions the return policy on the pregnancy prodigy. I laugh. Oh, how only the fool laughs.
N goes to sleep. One hour later the volcano erupts again.
When all is said and done we have each gone through 4 pairs of PJ’s (I stopped changing at some point) and countless towels and blankets. It’s midnight when her parents come to get her (they, bless them, were out of touch for AN HOUR, is this what it is to have children?!). The poor thing is sick and exhausted and done. with. us. In fact, at one point during the night she would only go to Rob. She must have been convinced that I was the cause of her misery. I began to think I was.
We are still trying to figure out the meaning of all this. The many vomits we have known. And really, what is the return policy on babies and dogs and cats? Can we send ours back? Maybe just for a few years. Until the world finds a cure for vomit?
In the end, N is fine. She has contracted the Norovirus and (thankfully) we did not get it. This is in spite of me finishing all of her half eaten pizza bits during our dinner earlier in the night. (What? She was done, I was hungry, I’m eating for two over here!) Her parents were not as lucky. They both got it. They, obviously, know nothing of this return policy