On Monday, Hattie wandered into our room at 4:30 am saying she thought she was going to throw up.
Which she promptly did.
On Tuesday morning, Cliff was holding Paloma in our kitchen. "My belly hurts," our little peanut lamented. I locked eyes with my Mister and before we could even telepathically communicate, "Do we have time to race her to the bathroom, or shall the garbage can suffice?" Paloma let out a huge "Brraaaaccck," and projectile vomited over the entire kitchen.
On Friday morning at 1 a.m., Atticus sauntered into our bedroom. "I think I threw up," he said. The Mister sleepwalked his way to Atticus' room to check on any possible vomitage.
"So did he?" I asked the Mister when he returned to the room.
A blank look greeted me: "Did he what?" Followed by instant snoring.
At 1:05 am, Atticus was paying homage to the porcelain god. Poor baby boy.
At 6:30 am, I discovered the vomitage in Atticus' room which our Sleepwalking Vomit Inspector failed to find.
By 2 a.m. this morning, it was MY turn.
4 down, 1 to go.
Fun, fun and more fun.