I made Ian his usual snack... a yogurt-icecream-Carnation Instant Breakfast-banana-milk smoothie. He refused it, which made me certain he was getting sick.
Fast forward to 1:07am. Ian is at the foot of our bed, crying. He had a fever.
Imagaine Matt in the most panicked voice you can think of, saying, "He's gonna puke! Hurry! He's gonna puke!"
While it is obviously normal for someone to not want to be puked on, Matt has a severe repulsion towards bodily fluids.
Ian and I sat on the floor of the bathroom until we were certain there would be no vomiting. He kept a dose of Ibuprofen down, so we were good to head to bed.
Matt found another available bed in the house, and Ian climbed in bed with me. Of course, at this point, he is nice and awake, tossing and turning, and wanting to carry on conversation. He eventually decided that since he was in Dad's bed, he wanted to sleep like Dad, with only his underpants on. (This is not TMI. This is important to know later in the story.)
Side note: I am a very angry sleepy person. I need at least 9 hours of good sleep, so that may mean an hour or so more of actually being in bed not getting good sleep on a normal night.
It's about 2:00am, and Ian is still awake, so we turn on Backyardigans. Brand spanking new episode, so I let him watch and ask Ian to please turn off the TV when it is over. He does eventually, yet, I am still awake to acknowledge that he has done so.
Ian falls asleep, and has this lovely every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze going on. Of course, I cannot sleep.
Fast forward to 4:00am. I am still awake, so I decide to give Ian another dose of meds before his fever spikes again. He does so and quickly falls back to sleep. Every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze. Every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze. Every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze.
5:00am-ish, and I am woken up to the dog on the bed on Matt's/Ian's side. Gagging. Wretching.
I cannot reach him from where I am so I have to get up to go around to the other side of the bed where he is standing over Ian, Ian laying on his side.
By the time I get there, THE DOG HAS PUKED ON IAN. Right on his side. His side is not that big, mind you, but I am thankful that 1) Ian was only in his underpants, and 2) The consistency was perfect for very little drippage. Gross, I know. Aware. I was there.
The dog is looking at me like, "Uh oh. What have I done?", and I am in that state of not really knowing what to do because Ian is still asleep, and I cannot find any papertowel in the master bathroom... ugh.
So, I grab the rag that was wet & cold on Ian's head for his fever, and scoop up the vomit off of his little body. I throw it in the sink and grab another towel to clean Ian up... I do so, and he says, still in sleep mode, "There is some that fell off," and he points behind him on the bed. Blech.
All is clean, dog is on the floor recovering, and I climb back into bed. Ian says, "That puke was hot," and he falls back to sleep.
Every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze. Every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze. Every-breath-snore-gurgle-wheeze.
8:00am comes and Ian is awake and feeling fine. I send him off to find Matt. And, I have been awake ever since.
And, I am an angry-sleep-deprived woman who is very thankful that she kicked Matt out of bed last night. Did I mention how much he likes body fluids? I wonder if Rico will be allowed to sleep in our bed tonight.
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