Easter bunnies

We spent a very beautiful two days with family last weekend, full of sun and laughs and baby bunnies and ham. And eggs. More eggs for Gill.

My mother-in-law came down with a stomach flu, and was out of commission ever so briefly from mid Saturday until mid-Sunday, but being the trooper that she is, she was up and about, cooking and laughing on Easter Sunday.

The girls ate repulsive amounts of chocolate, cleaned out Grandma's pool in the hopes of getting a swim in (gross!), and played in the drainage ditch per tradition. (double gross).

We got home late, got our filthy, exhausted children off to bed, watched a bit of Game of Thrones, and called it a night.

Until 3 am. Bela came stumbling down the stairs and I immediately smelled trouble. She muttered some incomprehensible words and then started to throw up the remains of many small and 'krispy' chocolate Easter bunnies.

I've written about Bela and throwing up many times before. And each time I've found it necessary to let you know that she has terrible foresight and worse aim when it comes to vomiting. And last night was no exception to that rule. Most of her body made it into the bathroom, and from the pattern on the floor and wall and cabinets and garbage can and wall convector and bathroom towels it seemed like she was facing in the general direction of the toilet. But the inside of the toilet had but a drop, crusted to the side of the bowl.

I didn't get out of bed. Chris went to her immediately and I felt that three might just be a crowd. He rubbed her back and wiped her tears and got her back upstairs with a pot under her arm, and I thought he was doing a bang up job all on his own.  Really super. I rolled over and pulled the covers over my shoulder.

Now, he's not the kind of guy to say "Can you help me in here?" He is, though,  the kind of guy to make a lot of noise as he gags and sputters his way through the cleanup.

I didn't get out of bed.  I was busy doing some mental math. Some co-parenting weighing of options. Stay in bed and play the "overcome by exhaustion" card and risk being an asshole? Get out of bed and clean up what was sure to be a nasty little mess? And exactly how long can I remain motionless, not helping, before I cross some line? What would I, Katie, say to me if I didn't get up and help?

And then I knew I had to, I had to help, because if he were lying in bed I'd be throwing dirty vomit towels in his face while I listed off every reason it was extremely unfair that I was managing the situation on my own.

Oh but it was a nasty little mess. We tied pleasant smelling t-shirts around our faces and stuffed bits into our mouths and nostrils while we mopped up the chocolate sludge off of every surface in our bathroom. and giggled and gagged like little kids. We used an entire roll of paper towels; filled an entire paper grocery bag.

I'll never eat another Easter chocolate for as long as I live.

And tonight, the girls are tucked into their beds - large, wide-mouthed metal bowls by their sides, surrounded by kitchen towels - slowly digesting (or not?) the Costa Rican take out meal I thought was such a great idea to order tonight.

And my stomach is burning as I sit here and write this.