Parenting is very glamourous...

Truman had a fever the other day and wasn't feeling too whippy, so I told him to go lay down in my bed and watch some cartoons while the Children's Advil worked its magic. A short time later he emerged from my bedroom to tell me he accidentally drooled on his blankie. I told him this was not a big deal and we went on with our day. When Bethany got home from work, he told her the same thing, so she grabbed the blankie and tossed it in the laundry hamper without giving it another thought.

That night, she and I got to bed at about 2:00am, both of us dead tired after a long day and a "date night" in town. As my weary head hit the pillow, a strange odor wafted over me. I examined the pillow and the bed, but saw nothing. Exhausted, I lay back down and tried to put the stench out of my mind. But that was impossible. I woke my bride up by exclaiming, "The bed smells like ass."

Bethany said, "I don't smell anything, just let me go to sleep, please." I did as I was told, but as my face was buried under the sheets, the aroma started to overwhelm me and a great realization occurred to me: The bed did not smell like ass. It smelled like vomit.

"Honey," I pleaded, "I think Truman puked on his blankie--and our bed."

To which she replied, "He said he drooled. Maybe he sweat a lot when his fever broke and that's what you're smelling."

I said, "I know what puke smells like. I'm telling you, he barfed in our bed. I can't sleep in this."

"Well it doesn't smell on my side. Just roll over here and we'll change the sheets tomorrow." She seemed so unaffected by it all.

"Honey, I love you, but if someone took a dump three feet from your head, would you just roll over and deal with it in the morning?" How could she argue with THAT logic?

"Fine! I just wanted some sleep dammit. Is that too much too ask?" She jumped out of bed and as she started stripping the sheets, the funk started to spread throughout the room.

"Can't you smell that?" I gagged. It was horrible. I grabbed the offending linens and hurried them down to the laundry room. I pulled Truman's blankie out of the hamper and as I tossed it into the washing machine, a wave of noxious fumes doubled me over as waves of nausea cemented my theory that our four-year-old had in fact barfed in our bed. I had to stop twice to compose myself as I tried to fit the king-sized sheets, my pillow, and that damned blankie into the washer. My vision was so blurred by the tears in my eyes that I struggled to find the detergent. As I finally closed the lid and started the wash cycle, Bethany walked in--apparently tired of waiting for me to bring the clean sheets. She saw that her spouse was suffering and detected the hint of vomit scent lingering in the air. And then she laughed at me. She laughed all the way up the stairs. She laughed as we walked into our bedroom. She laughed as we put on the clean sheets. She laughed as I ripped off my t-shirt which had evidently absorbed some of the fragrance du jour. She laughed as she admitted that perhaps the four-year-old misspoke when he said he drooled on his blankie. She laughed as she acknowledged that maybe he had in fact puked on my side of the bed. She laughed as I screamed "And you were gonna make me lay in another human being's vomit all night long because you were too tired to get up and change the sheets!" And then I laughed, too, and took a scalding hot shower to strip away any remnants of the carnage that may have remained in my hair or on my person. And she was still laughing when I came back to bed.

Parenting is very glamorous.