Fruit Bat awoke at 3 am again this morning. What did he arise at that ungodly hour to do, you ask? Did he wake up to go to the bathroom? Get a drink of water? Kiss my cheek and murmur PC, which is his code for I Love You?
Nope. None of those things.
He got up to vomit.
I can't believe it. He just recovered from the last bout and was finally starting to eat again.
And I don't know what upsets me more, the beginning of another illness, one that keeps us quarantined and itchy, watching too much TV and gazing longingly at the outside world where there are trees and other people. Or the clumsy way that J. and I fumble and bicker in the middle of the night when confronted with a screeching, spewing child.
You'd think we'd have a system down by now. Or that, at least, I would keep my stupid mouth shut when I'm too tired to speak very coherently or kindly.
But, nope. None of those things.
On a happy note, Fruit Bat's preschool teacher wants to bump him up to her Pre-K program. A little late in the year it is. He'll be all kinds of challenged, though. And, I think, have more fun with kids closer to his own age.
The best part about the switch: afternoons. Five of them a week. Which means, until Kindergarten starts next fall (at which point I'm screwed) we're done with mornings where I'm dragging Kitty Cat to the car in her pajamas while stuffing an allergen-free granola bar into Fruit Bat, combing his hair and sniping at him to hurry up and choose a show-and-tell because we're late! Late again! Yesterday morning, with the time change and all, was so bad that I was in tears by the time we got buckled in and started rolling toward school.
Ah, life. Ain't it grand?