There was an interesting discussion today on 'talk of the nation' about Sarah Palin vis a vis the working mom and what that says about modern feminism. Seeing as how they only took call from women, I found the conversation a bit one sided. That, and it was about Palin, so of course there was that lingering barf taste in my mouth. Nonetheless, as a society we discuss motherhood as if it were some kind of factor in job performance, but we never do that with regard to fatherhood. 

Ah, what a day.

As I mentioned, Rebekah was sick. The vomiting and fever have since given way to explosive diarrhea (more on that later). Of note is the fact that our dryer kicked the bucket exactly one load into three days worth of vomiting. As you might imagine, there's lots of laundry to do with a sick child and having no dryer handy…well. I got a not-altogether-unpleasant flashback to hanging clothes out to dry as a kid. It was nice to reminisce. Only, when I was young, we were doing it in on a line in the backyard, not on a jerry-rigged system strung out across the kitchen and back. But this got us through about nine loads of clothes and Reed thought it was a lot of fun to run around underneath the clothes, towels and assorted linens.

Today, our replacement dryer showed up … with its partner, a new clothes washer. Our last duo had lasted ten years, so we figured we were about due. About five minutes after the delivery guys leave, I realize the new washer keeps cutting off after two minutes. Push start. Two minutes and it cuts off. Repeat. At this point, I'm getting fairly frustrated as the morning has consisted of waiting around to get all the vast quantities of household laundry started, removing all the fittings and associated crap from the old units, etc. Now the new one isn't even working! And I'd just let my still-working washer walk out the door! 

I figured out it was the old supply hoses that were causing a water flow restriction. But given some problems with faucet handles… well, long story short I ended up flooding the laundry room, which then flooded down into the basement. Not huge. Not water standing inches deep. But still a pain in the butt. Soaking wet, I manage to run downstairs and shut of the water main, get the spill cleaned up, pull the carpet up, fans running, new hoses hooked back up, new washer running with the first load and I'm just about to plop my tired ass down on the couch when the baby monitor crackles to life. 

Ah.

So, how do I end this day?

Rebekah has spent the vast majority of dinner out of her chair and sitting smugly in mommy's lap. Then she pops up suddenly, hustles over to me, clambers up into my arms, grabs me in a big hug (really sweet, right?) … and promptly explodes diarrhea out of her diaper. 

Yay!

I have a sick baby. She's sleeping on the floor right now, cuddled up underneath a blanket. This is the child that has begun refusing naps, though she's not quite two. This is the child that can wake alertly at midnight if you creep uber-silently into her room. And now she's sacked out under her blankie next to the couch, bathed in the dull light of an overcast day.

Being sick stinks.

I mean, it's bad enough for us grown-ups. But we at least know what's going on. She doesn't understand why she can't have her big cup of milk, why she keeps throwing up the little bit of water she does have, why she feels so lousy. Last night, she just sat in the warm water of the tub–one of perhaps half a dozen little dips following visits by the vomit fairy–quietly poking floating bubbles with one extended finger.

Hopefully in a day or so, this will just be a bad memory. Or perhaps not even that. It's amazing how quickly kids move on.