Avery. My sweet, caring, expressive, giving, brilliant, sensitive, hilarious and stunningly beautiful daughter. She is heart of my soul and my love for her is unfathomable.
Landon. The cutest, smiliest, handsomest, silliest, most adorable little boy who ever lived. He has given me more joy in his two short years than in all the previous twenty-five combined. I can't take my eyes off of him. He is absolutely darling and my love for him overflows.
Yet, sometimes I find myself gazing out of our windows, picturing myself sprinting up the sweeping desert mountains behind my home, by myself, never to be heard from or seen ever again. In my mind, I'm running and running and running and just keep going as far as my body will take me. It's just so quiet. No more questions or requests. No more demands or complaints. No more noise. Just the mountains and me.
Last night was top five hardest ever. Maybe top three. Actually, yesterday all together was a tough one. Usually the first day of my period is, but on this particular day, my unpredictable emotions keep me weeping and wailing. And with my frustration at an absolute peak, my brain threw a Why-Me themed raging pity party all day long.
So, I'm an internal mess. And quite frankly, a mess in the literal sense as well. I am notorious for ocean-sized periods. Red Sea maybe? Too far? Regardless, it's insane. I actually opened my bathroom cabinet yesterday to find that one of my tampons was missing, and in its place was it's empty wrapper instead. One might speculate that my two-year-old may have been fiddling around with what he thought were funny little plastic sticks and misplaced the thing, but I'd be willing to bet that that lil tampon knew what he was in for and was like, "I'm gettin da fuq outta here!" Then jumped out the window, little string flapping in the wind, while he ran straight for the very hills that have caught my eye so many times.
Anyway, I took Avery to a miserable dance class yesterday. Let's just say I may or may not have sobbed the entire way home, completely blanketed by embarrassment and frustration. We'll just say that may or may not have happened.
Eventually, we made it home and I made a delicious dinner through misty, blinking eyes. And as with all my most delicious meals, no one ate one bite of it. With that, I cleaned the kitchen, did some laundry, gave the kids a bath, then complied with Avery's request to turn on a movie before bed. The Grinch. Humph. What's his problem, right? I give the kids their respective drinks at that point. Avery, chocolate milk, and Landon, strawberry milk.
"The quiet before the storm," as they say.
Within ten minutes of the movie, Landon unexpectedly vomits every ounce what seemed like 135 gallons of strawberry milk onto everything. Everywhere. It's on the carpet and in the crevices of our coffee table. It's filled the pilot's seat of Landon's little toy plane like a tiny soup bowl filled with pink, chunky bile. It's slimy and sour. The smell is unbearable. I sopped and wiped and disinfected and vacuumed until my back ached and I felt satisfied. I convinced myself and my husband "it is NOT the stomach flu"... maybe he choked on his finger or drank the milk too fast? He was fine a minute ago! Plus, if there was a god, after today's weight, he wouldn't do that to me. I'm a good person.
Eventually, I get the kids to bed. It's over. It's a god damn miracle!! It's over! Sound the alarm! No, don't actually, thanks.
So, I finish yesterday's blog and get to bed at about eleven.
At one in the morning it starts.
Avery starts screaming. She's losing her shit because her bear fell off the bed. I march in, snap on her light, ready to scold her for her blinding insensitivity and, instead, find my hysterical daughter covered in blood. It's in her hair, smeared across her face and arms and on her fingertips. Her sheets and pillow case are covered. And in my shocked half-asleep haze I try to remember if I had accidentally switched out her teddy bear for razor blades or butcher knives and then concluded that it was a bloody nose. A bad one. It was a blood bath. I tiredly cleaned up her face and limbs and swapped out her covers.
Back to bed.
About fifteen minutes pass when I hear a gurgling, choking cry emerge from Landon's room. Upon my entry to his room, Landon's head then began to spin completely around while he simultaneously vomitted into every corner of his bedroom. At least that's how I remember it. He was like a water sprinkler and fire hydrant puking hybrid or something. I rushed to assist him, accidently stepping in the ungodly goo, feeling it squish inbetween my toes. Troy appeared (...about fucking time), scooped up little Lanman, then changed him into a fresh pair of pjs, where he then brought him into bed with us, laying him upon a couple towels. And because apparently sleep is for suckers, I take to stripping his bed and crib sheets and bumpers, scooping off the layers of vomit into the toilet, then adding to the mountain of sheets that needed to be set on fire and destroyed in the morning.
I toss and turn in my bed, completely grossed out by all the grossness. I feel like I'm the one covered in blood and vomit. Like, my skin is all slippery and goopy or something. And when I actually really awake, I realize that I AM in fact covered in blood. At a glance, it appears as though I have just given birth to fourteen pound triplets and then was immediately shot in the vagina with a rifle and where I then bled out. Needless to say, I am quickly up and scrubbing and blotting and cleaning and changing. In my overtired state, I know I am doing a substandard job, but I will take a shower in a minute, AND I NEED SOME EFFING COFFEE. Like, now. Seriously. I'll choke whoever gets in my way.
I eventually venture downstairs, and in the light of the day, I can now see the disgusting mess that is my family. First, I glance at my naseuated husband who looks like he has been held captive and tortured by a gang of bleeding and puking pirates, and then I scan over to the horror film that is my children. Avery's hair is blood-soaked and tangled, her eyes are wired, and she has dried blood smeared across her cheek. And Landon, who's pajamas were NOT changed, contrary to popular belief, is wearing a vomit-stained top, and thanks to what is absolutely without-a-doubt the stomach flu, also looks pale and ill.They are sitting on the couch, blankly watching tv, and I swear to god they could have passed for legitimate zombies at that point. Like, rotting and decaying limbs and all.
At this point, I am now exceedingly aware of my need for the longest, hottest, most disinfectionary shower of all time. Then I remember the puke that I stepped in, and can't recall if I actually cleaned in between my toes last night. I looked past my supernaturally listless and revolting children and above and through the window behind them... at the mountains... so.. far... awayyyyy...........