Dear Mysterious Unknowable Entity That Purportedly Runs the Universe:
Seriously, what's with all the barfing?
We all lived this chapter a few weeks ago, when a stomach bug blew through the Bert Sanctuary. I wrote a post about it, and we all had a good laugh. My oh my, we said, look at all that vomit. First the little boy, then the big one, spouting like coke bottles full of Mentos. Then came the diarrhea, and nobody ate anything for a week. Hil-A-rious, with a capital H. And we thought it was over.
But this morning, when I opened the boys' bedroom door, the pukewaft hit me in the face like a frying pan. It was still dark-ish, and I didn't have my glasses on. So I padded apprehensively over the crib, reached in for TwoBert, and my groping hands met with crusty pajamas. That was a nice touch, making him upchuck and sleep in it.
Then tonight, Robert went off to brush his teeth and came back with "bad news": He had spewed all over the bathroom floor. He was right there. He was on his way to the bathroom anyway. And he still shorted the toilet by 18 measly inches.
Why the relapse? What did we do?
Oh, wait. Is it because I DVR'ed the Grammys, and Robert made us watch Rascal Flatts butcher that Eagles retrospective? Yeah, that's gotta be it. Sorry about that. We won't do it again.