Sunday School

This morning, karma came home to roost. I'd like to quote my friend T, who forecast bad things:
...bragging in your blog about your perfectly acceptable day on Friday. It's like
when I'm working in the hospital...the moment anyone talks about how quiet it
is, all hell breaks loose: there's a code, a family member of a patient shows up
drunk, some woman comes in delivering twins who didn't know she was pregnant, someone calls in a bomb threat, 5 nurses call in sick for the next shift, we have 27 admissions from the emergency room, you name it. It's the law...a well known one to us healthcare types. Never speak of how great things are
because the moment you do, WHAM! Next time you have a lovely day, silently count your blessings and SHUT IT!! :)

So, my nice Friday coupled with my Northwestern vicory over Michigan, partnered with a girls' night out on Saturday probably sent the fairness gods into a snit. Therefore, they punished me with Sunday.
E had a fever and woke up all wonky in the middle of the night. Twice. I hooked him up with some Tylenol and sent him on his way. Then, at five, S comes crying into my room. I head him back into the hallway to ask what is wrong. "Sniff. I pooped my pants." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and he hasn't so much pooped as had a fart go awry. It's happened to the best of us. I kiss him, wash him, re-drawer him, and tuck him back in. I am not barely back into my bed when he comes back, "I pooped again." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and clearly, the same event has occurred. We clean, kiss, and re-pant. This time, I snuggle into bed with him, knowing we are getting dangerously close to that time in the morning when it will be too late to go to sleep again: when he will realize it is closer to wake-up than to middle of the night. I cuddle. A hideous stench wafts up. We get up again. Five times. A sharting outbreak.
Then, E has issues. He is sad that he is still under punishment and therefore not allowed on the Sunday Waffle House Outing with Dad. In his most pathetic voice, through sniffles and crocodile tears, he asks if I would please, PLEASE have Dad bring him a chocolate milk from Waffle House. They do so have the best chocolate milk ever.
Forget it. S isn't going anywhere with his unreliable flatulence. E isn't getting off the punishment hook, and Dad isn't going to Waffle House for his own health. I try to explain to E. He joins me and S in S's bed. Now, the first rays of dawn have broken through the trees. Hurry, close their eyes. Don't let them see. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Insert slow motion close-up of scream with vibrating uvula in the back of my throat)
So, it's 5:40. Clooney has heard the action from his crate in the kitchen. He wants in on the dysfunction extravaganza. The boys come down with me, I take out the dog in 30 something weather in my tee shirt. Come in, crack open a Mountain Dew (brewing coffee at this juncture would involve grinding the beans, pouring the water, washing the caraffe, throwing out yesterday's grounds. Too much to process). I would take my caffeine intravenously at this point.
The day has begun. By 6, I have imparted useful learning to my children.
S and E have both learned valuable lessons. E has learned that punishment stings. S has learned to never trust a toot.