Regurgitation

Major Vice: Whenever I (Julia) am feeling nauseated to the point of vomiting, I can't deal with it on any level. Not emotionally, not physically, not spiritually. If the tell-tale signs of a churning stomach and a cold sweat begin appearing, I want to die. I get crazy. I start MOANING and talking gibberish and loudly praying to Jesus to save me (which is incredibly awkward in a public restroom). My retching is probably 5 times louder than it has to be but I can't help it. I feel like my life is on the line and I just give it my all. 

I'm not, like, the pukiest person in the world, but I do get ill with enough frequency that I SHOULD know that I will, in fact, continue living a comfortable life after a vomiting episode. But I don't. Honestly, I probably need some sort of sensei to teach me self-control in those situations.

Sloan is now used to this type of behavior after enduring many early frightening episodes where I screamed like a banshee and "was reaching for the light" after a night out eating sketchy Mexican food.

Annnnnnd after about a 2 month dry spell, Sunday reminded me of what it felt like to pray for a quick death. I felt semi-sick all morning, but Sloan assumed I was faking to get out of church. He apprehensively stayed home with me as I took about 4 baths to try and feel better. I was lying on the bed when the dry heaving began. Sloan was in the living room.

Julia: MOOOOOOOAN AGGGGGGGGGH 

Sloan: Baby? You need to go back into the bathroom, don't you think?

Julia: HELPMEJESUS GGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAA

Sloan: Honey, do you need-

Julia: BLARGH *splat*

Sloan comes  into our room to find me sweaty and face-planted in my dark red vomit (thanks, Kool-Aid, for keeping your sense of humor about things). He carries me, delirious and clawing at the air, to the bathroom to lie on the floor. Little man then strips the bedding and puts it in the washer, all while I lay on the ground groaning like a downed soldier. 

It was the worst experience of my life. But I say that every time. I didn't throw up anymore that day, but that meager cup's worth sure went the distance for me by making me sound like an idiot and staining our mattress permanently. And what did I learn from this? NOTHING. I will be just as bonkers the next time. JUST AS BONKERS.

PuttPuttPuttPutt

My little man is classy.

And he likes to cheat.

 

WTF Sloan

CAUTION: FACEBOOK REPEAT

This is my adorable little man just living his life/talking to himself as we drive through the canyon. He thought I was trying to take a picture of him, so he largely ignored me until realizing I had stayed motionless with the camera for a while, so I had to abort the mission.

Miscommunication

Let me start out by saying that my nursery children are adorable and generally well-behaved. I thoroughly enjoy their personalities and the inevitable cuteness that comes with interacting with babies in Sunday clothes. Most Sundays consist of giggles and a gentle, good time . However, there are some Sundays that I will call Yes,-We-Are-Cute-Babies,-But-We'd-Like-To-Respectfully-Remind-You-That-We-Are-Still-Babies-Sundays.

On YWACBBWLTRRTWASB Sundays, there is a deep and complex chasm between what we leaders tell the children and what they hear. Our simple instructions seem to be interpreted by the kids not as clear commands, but as lengthy, strategic plots to be carried out.

What We Say: Don't eat the Play-Doh!!
What They Hear: If you eat the Play-Doh, you will hate how it tastes and freak out when it gets stuck to the roof of your mouth. It will feel unpleasant, not only to have us shove our fingers in your mouth to fish it out, but also to attempt to expel the salty residue that will remain once the Play-Doh has been extracted. As undesirable as this sequence may seem , you will, however, get a personal trip to the water fountain and a package of fruit snacks if you do, indeed, eat the Play-Doh. Consider these factors carefully. Then, eat the Play-Doh.

What We Say: Don't take your shoes off.
What They Hear: Your shoes are uncomfortable and they make you trip and fall over a lot. They are difficult to unbuckle, but you can figure it out. Do not forget that you are only allowed to remove your shoes if you promptly hide them in places such as behind the toy cabinet, under the piano, or in the trash can.

What We Say: Be reverent while you're at church.
What They Hear: If you consistently act rambunctious for the first hour and a half, we will eventually break down and take you to the field outside. There, you can run and run until you can't run anymore. You won't do anything in particular; you will just run as hard as you can in a giant circle whilst shrieking with glee for half an hour. We will then carry your sweaty bodies back to the nursery room to wait for your parents to arrive.

What We Say: Walk, don't run, in the hallway at church. And fold your arms!
What They Hear: You may run in the church hallways, but only if you wrap your arms around your body in a self-hugging manner because your arms are not yet proportioned to actually fold. If you trip and begin to fall, DO NOT discontinue folding your arms, even if it means a devastating faceplant.

What We Say: Don't bang on the piano.
What They Hear: Fine. Whatever, just bang on the piano