It’s one of those habits you pick up as a parent: you check on the kids before heading to bed. I stepped into Rebekah’s room and my nose told me immediately what had happened. It was that smell you forever recognize: vomit. Poor thing had thrown up and then fallen asleep in it. No crying, no nothing. Just puke, glad that’s over, sleep. I’d probably be able to come up with a joke about people drinking and puking here, but it’s late and I’m tired.

So, pick the poor, stunned little thing up out of bed, hustle downstairs and grab a freshly washed mattress cover out of the basket, climb back upstairs, change the linens, pluck out the woobee (really, isn’t that the woobee’s job? To get puked upon and then stick in there to provide comfort?), strip the child, put her in the bath (she’s thrilled—two baths in one night!), wash her, dry her, dress her, rock her, rock her some more, and put her in bed, run to find new woobee. Elmo will do in a pinch, I find.

Of course, it’s midnight and now she thinks it’s party time. Wooo. And I still have lunch to pack for tomorrow.

And, yes, the certainly means one of them will be up in the morning before 6am. Guaranteed.