I kept Elizabeth out of school yesterday, she was NOT allowed to go because of the poop-o-rama continuing in the morning. But we had to run a bunch of errands yesterday, so I was out and about with the baby and two ticking poo timebombs.
Much to my surprise, noone had any incidents while we were in town.
Yep. No incidents in town at all. When we got home, Dylan demanded a cup of milk and despite my better instincts and attempts to redirect him to more appropriate fare, I let him have a SMALL glass of milk and crackers for dinner.
Both sick kids were asleep by 8:30. When the baby woke up to eat at 11:30, all was quiet on the western front. All the fronts were quiet.
I went back to sleep with a false sense of security thinking that we'd make it through a whole day with no poop catastrophes!
A loud wail pierced the fog of sleep surrounding me at around 3 am. It was Dylan.
Bob went to usher him out of the inky darkness of the living room. I was still half asleep and hoped to just slip back into my dream. Sadly, that wasn't to be.
"Did you poop your pants?" Bob asked a still sobbing Dylan.
"Yeeeeesssss!" he replied.
Bob shot me a pleading look and feigned nausea at the thought of changing a poop-o-rama diaper. I can't say I blame him. I wish I had a sucker like me to pass off these tasks to.
I got out of bed, fished a diaper and wipes out of the diaper bag and returned to the living room, now lit up. At least Bob had the courtesy to prepare my operating suite.
I knelt down beside Dylan who was crying and had a diaper soaked with poop-o-rama. What I was about to endure would be hideous.
Then a weird noise gurgled in Dylan's throat.
"Are you gonna throw up?" I asked him.
He shook his head no, then spewed forth an impressive fountain of puke. The puke fountain barely missed soaking me, landing on the carpet instead.
"Oh GOD! Take him into the bathroom!!" I yelled to Bob.
Bob picked him up and made it just in time to the safety of the bathroom floor. As I got a towel to clean the puke off the carpet I heard a heave, a splash and then my husband gagging. I got in there just in time to see pukes #3 and #4. Poor Dylan. He has terrible puking aim and I think he blames the toilet for making him puke as he would not go near enough to the potty to make being in the bathroom any advantage for him, or us.
Once Dylan was done, Bob mopped up the floor and tossed the towel directly into the washing machine, gagging the whole time. That was the end of his involvement. He gagged for about two more minutes despite being two rooms away.
I handled the rest of the mess, changing Dylan and cleaning his face. The baby woke up around then, so I washed my hands with boiling hot water and rubbed santizer from fingertips to elbows and went to handle his needs while Bob put Dylan to bed (with a towel underneath him and all around him). The ordeal was over.
I got back into bed with the whole gang. Bob on one edge, Elizabeth on the other and Dylan and I wedged in between.
"How does your belly feel?" I asked him.
"Great," he croaked.
I told him to shut his eyes and go back to sleep. He did. Then he farted.
Bob popped up off his pillow like a prairie dog. I swear he has post traumatic stress from all this poop and vomit.
"What was that?" he said.
"He farted Bob, you need to calm down."
Soon after we all fell asleep and continued to snooze without further issues until the morning.
When Dylan woke up, he came out to the living room and said...
"I can't like milk. Milk makes me sick."