Last night, class let out unexpectedly early again, and I was able to get home in time to kiss Punkin goodnight and snuggle up with Hubby to watch "E.R." in bed. (Kinda like a Thursday night date.)

As the show on the TV screen faded to black, and the first of the credits appeared I shut the TV off and burrowed deeper under the covers. The last happy little thought in my weary head was that I didn't have to go to work today.

Sometime around 11:30pm I heard Punkin in her room. She was fussing and whimpering a bit. She will occasionally do this in her sleep, so I waited a minute before getting up to check on her.

When I walked into her room, she was sitting up in bed and looking down at her hands and crying. I immediately flipped on the light to discover exactly what I dreaded. She had gotten sick in her bed. All. Over. Her. Bed.

I went into full alert Mom mode. I ever so carefully removed her nightgown and plopped it in the middle of the messy bed. Then I evacuated any toys/books/bed linens that looked like it had been spared the regurgitation. Next out was the daughter. I carried her (the best I could) into the bathroom where I placed her on the vanity to wash her up. I was grateful that she didn't need an entire bath. She was awfully proud to show me that she "still had flowers!"

After cleaning her up, I instructed her to stay put so that I could clean up her bedroom (which currently smelled hideous!) without her interference.

My nose wrinkled in, my eyebrows went up and I was very aware of the look on my face. You know the one I mean... when you smell something just totally awful or have to deal with something disgusting. (I'm wearing that face now as I remember) Ugh. It was a bad scene. Her pillow had to be thrown away, and her bed had to be stripped. For the umpteenth time I was happy that I'd invested in a cover for her mattress. I even had to wipe off the wall. Bleh.

Punkin "helped me" put new sheets back on and I found a new pillow for her to use. She climbed back into a nice, clean bed while I brought the offending bed linens down to the washing machine.

I remembered the scene in "Mr. Mom" where Micheal Keaton's character is preparing to change the baby and is wearing goggles, playtex gloves and is holding a pair of tongs. That's what I felt like. I suddenly wanted my arms to be three feet longer so I didn't have to get so close to those sheets.

As I shook the foul bedsheets out into the utility tub, it occurred to me how friends of mine would react to this situation. I can hear "Yuck! How do you deal with that? I would be totally grossed out." I've used the typical "Oh it's different when it's your own child" line that Moms use, but lemme let you in on a little secret.

It's no different. It is completely disgusting and my own stomach was quivering as I dealt with the mess. All that phrase means is "Yes, it's gross, but when your child is sitting there in a pool of vomit in the middle of the night, ain't nobody else gonna come and take care of the mess for you."

As I attempted to stuff the offending items into the washing machine without actually *touching* them, I noticed that it looked as if Punkin's dinner hadn't been digested at all. I knew she was feeling fine yesterday at school, and she didn't have a fever when I kissed her goodnight. Given that she was now asking for something to eat and chatting up a storm I determined that her dinner just didn't sit well in her tummy. (I'm just a regular Sherlock Holmes, ain't I?)

I started the washer and headed back on up to my own bed. She was already settling down and I prayed a silent prayer that she would be ok for the rest of the night.

I'd felt that I'd just done my "penance" for having today off of work, and my last little thought before I fell into blissful sleep was "No more fishsticks for her -- or ME."

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