We've been laying low recently at our house, because Baby W had a bad reaction to his vaccines and was a little under the weather. Nothing too awful, but he was just sick enough to vomit hot milk all over me in the middle of the night. And then he cried inconsolably for an hour. I get that he wasn't feeling well, but jeez, shouldn't I be the one doing the crying? I was the one that got puked on!
When the baby started throwing up in the middle of the night, David wasn't in the bedroom, but that's not usual since David doesn't come to bed until the wee hours. A quick search of the premises, though, showed that David wasn't in the house either. I called his cell phone, and could hear that he was in a bar somewhere, and we had a conversation like this:
Me: "The baby's sick."
David: "WHAT??" [loud music, people going 'wheee!' in background.]
Me: "THE BABY PUKED ON ME. COME HELP ME."
David: "WHAT?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" [More music, and sounds of people having a good time with very little vomiting happening, and any vomiting that does happen to occur is happy vomiting, positively ecstatic vomiting.] "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
Me: "I SAID, THE BABY PUKED ON ME AND IT WAS SURPRISINGLY HOT. COME HOME!!"
David: "I CAN'T HEAR YOU. PROBABLY BECAUSE THE BAR IS FILLED WITH TOO MANY SOUNDS TOTALLY UNRELATED TO VOMITING."I did eventually communicate to him that he should come home on the double, and he did. David managed to soothe the baby while I took a shower. Then Baby W was fussy for the next 48 hours or so, throwing the whole family a little off-balance. Stella tried to compensate by biting her brother extra hard, possibly in an attempt to emulate physicians from the Middle Ages who let blood from their patients to heal them. (In this case, Stella would be playing the part of the leech.) I'm somewhat dismayed by her continuing inability to be gentle to her brother, but it could be worse. At least she's not reading him Proust.