Yesterday turned out to be one of those days that I typically dread and often end up loving: a home day.

We played with the doll house.

We did our old favorite floor puzzle.

We made "pizza" with Play-Doh.

We didn’t step even one foot out the door all day and none of us even changed out of the jammies we had woken up in.

Well, not until the puke.

Even after the fact, I can’t say that I know where it came from. M* is convinced that it was just a result of his lingering cold and all the snot he’s been basically swallowing. I thought it must be a bug and waited all night for the fever to spike, which it never did, despite the listlessness, sleepy whimpering, and gray pallor of his face. He, in fact, woke up at 5am, raring to go — as if he hadn’t just horked up his entire body weight fewer than 12 hours before. In my sleepy morning haze, I listened to my bed-mate (sick boy = Mama sleepover) chatter about stars and sunlight and that Barney firefighter movie he hadn’t seen in 6 months or more. I fumbled for my phone, found that damn movie on Netflix and slept for another 3 hours. Presumably, he fell back to sleep, too.

Anyway, that was yesterday. I just thought I’d tell you all about yesterday.

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