If there's puke involved, it's a Monday. Especially if the father figure is going all white knight on the situation and decides to handle it. And reassures you that it's all good. Just on a hunch, it not being a first rodeo or anything, you decide to double check. And find that the little bit of spew that occurred in the bathroom and that the father figure cleaned up was preceded by copious amounts of spewing in the bedroom. Like the bed, and the floor and the clothing thrown on the floor because people still don't use hampers in this house.
Life with five kids is always complicated. It gets especially complicated when Cinco decides that she does want to eat anymore. At least during daylight hours. Because there are way better things to do like look at ceiling fans, trying to crawl and nurse at the same time and chew on my computer. But mostly look at ceiling fans or wonder why mom and dad bought a house with a stunning paucity of ceiling fans.
It's not that she's interested in table food. Well she is, until she actually tastes it. Cinco gets frenetically excited when she sees food. I'm still expecting her to take off with the hysterical flapping she does. However, she has yet to be impressed with what she's been fed so far. I consider it training for the rest of her life eating her mother's cooking. Never lives up to your expectations.
Now Cinco's the active little girls. She hauls diaper at a remarkable pace. So she does find herself needing nourishment, after her entertainment. So, when the lights go down, she starts to eat. All night. And my little girl who so perfectly slept through the night for the first few months of her life, threw that game plan out and wrote a new one. I'm not a fan of the new one.
After a couple of weeks of watching Cinco drift off for good around 5am and knowing that I had to teach a math class at 7am, I decided to write my own game plan. So I now have to pump a bottle for Cinco and feed it to her. It's a win win, she eats and sleeps.
The downside is that I have to pump. Which takes up it's own time, time that I don't really have. And it attract unnecessary attention. Mostly from X-Man. The first few times he just pointed and laughed. But obviously he thought the process over. He came over tonight and pointed and shrieked with delight "Mommy robot. Robot!"
I believe that I have solidified my standing as the coolest parent. I'm a robot parent. The father figure can take them to Chuck E. Cheese all he wants. I'm a robot!