Sunday

I didn't think that the joy that was Christmas day when Sebastian wasn't quite 2 months old and was certainly not his laid back self yet and Simon was on his 8th day of working 12-14 hour shifts in a row and Julia was inexplicably projectile vomming everywhere could ever be topped. But yesterday gave it a serious run for its fun. Oh, you don't want to hear another broken record of a complainy post? I'm almost sorry.

Like most Sundays when Simon is working, I got the kids ready for Mass (including packing up Julia's caboodle of crap) we drove to meet him at the hospital for Mass in the hospital chapel. Of course, a patient (selfishly) decided to time her needs for the exact hour that Mass began and left me and kids (very patiently) waiting in the parking lot. I eventually put on my grown woman pants and heaved Sebastian inside while walking as fast as Julia's little legs would take us which was v-e-r-y s-s-s-s-s-l-l-l-l-l-l-l--o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w-w-w--w-w-w-w-w.

 "Hello, my name is Julia and I am the proud owner of the 'slowest walker in public ever' title"

By the time we slinked into the back at 9:06 the Gospel was being read because this is probably the fastest Mass in the whole entire universe. And by the time Simon ran in a few minutes later, the inaudible homily was practically over. I was temporarily blinded by annoyance (not anger, never anger -- I am a saint) and don't exactly remember but I think there may have been some whisper-barking about priorities and residency and priorities again -- I think. We got through Mass with Simon's pager only going off twice and his phone only getting a zillion urgent texts that were not at all disruptive. I knew that I deserved a hospital cafeteria donut or 12 for my good behavior but apparently an unscheduled c-section had other plans for my grumbling tum

I shifted gears and set my sights on some not that fast but still kind of fast food down the road. After discovering that Chick-Fil-A is (still) closed on Sundays (which I support but am not exactly pleased about) I gunned it to Dunkin Donuts and praised the good Lord for the invention of the drive-thru window. Surely the inventor had mothers with children in car seats in mind when he bestowed that brilliance upon America. Surely. We met some friends at the park where Julia efficiently and pungently evacuated half my coffee and all of the donuts she ingested into her diaper and Sebastian broke and ate my favorite necklace that I was stupidly wearing.

After driving home and walking a sleeping Sebastian almost inside while watching Julia Molasses Patton "walk" inside, Sebastian followed Julia's Christmas day suit and projectile vommed allllllllll over the back of my dress. I pleaded with Molasses to please hurry and as soon as we got all the way in the door he erupted again -- and again -- and again -- and again. Julia happily narrated the entire thing, "poooop!!! pooooop!!!" so that was nice. He smiled happily while I unhappily cleaned the gross and pealed my dress of my person. Before I had had a chance to put a different set of momclothes on I noticed that Sebastian's sprint slither to the toilet had left a path that looked like poooop!!! And it was. All the way up inside his neckfolds -- much to Julia's diaper-change-watch-loving delight. It's a good thing I was wearing my hazmat suit of no clothes because it made cleanup a lot easier.

I guess the climbing action of the story sort of stops there. He continued the vomfest after his nap which only worried me because his diaper was totally dry (miracle -- never happens) but some diluted Pedialyte down the hatch seemed to cure his ailments and he is back to his overly happy self today.

 "Hello my name is Sebastian and I know how to turn sinfully lax moms into crazy hypochons"

I have to admit that I not at all begrudgingly hired Barney  this morning to watch the kids while I showered off the dried remnants of Sebastian's short-lived bug, spot cleaned my pajama jeans, and (most importantly) "dear blogged" all about yesterday. De nada.

I'm still not laughing about Christmas so we'll see how many weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, or lifetimes pass before I can manage a forced smile over the joyous memory of this interminable weekend.