Ick

Alex let us sleep in today. When I woke up, about an hour or so after I usually do, my first thought (Okay, my second thought. The first one was "I'm not tired. How'd that happen?") was to wonder what was wrong. Alex never lets us sleep late anymore. He's all "eh, eh, eh" and come get me mama as soon as his eyes open in the morning.

So, I went to check on him. As soon as I opened the door he started to stir, so I picked him up and took him back to our room. I figured I could get some cuddles before he started to throw himself recklessly at every dangerous object in the house. I laid down in the bed with him and he let his head sink to my chest. I buried my nose in his hair and took a big deep breath, looking for that elusive baby smell that seems to be disappearing at an alarming rate. I did not find the wonderful baby smell. What I found was... less pleasant.

Sometime in the night Alex puked on himself. And I let him sleep in it! Because I am clearly a candidate for mother of the year. His hair was crusty with it, the sheets were covered, even the side of the crib had ick all over it. And his beloved dragon, the one that my mother bought for him the day he was born, the one that he has never slept without, was coated in the stuff.

He seems fine now, but ick indeed.