On why I am never living in an apartment without a washer and dryer again

Yesterday everyone was tired.  We (I) had packed up our things and driven from NC to DC with little or no naps.  Edwin went to bed at 5:30.  The girls went to bed at 6:30, and were asleep by seven.

After everyone was asleep, I settled down with a book and fell asleep myself, finally rolling off the couch around nine.  I got ready for bed, sent my nightly email to Brandon, wasted a few minutes online, and then climed into bed myself, ready to get my pregnant eight plus hours of necessary sleep.

And then Edwin started crying.  I initially ignored him, hoping he'd go back to sleep, but after a few minutes maternal guilt kicked in and I got up to check on him.  When I opened the door to the room, the smell hit me.  Vomit.  I don't like vomit; I don't think anyone does.  And I've never actually dealt with anyone's but my own, and that itself has only occurred twice since elementary school.  Thankfully each previous incident with the children had been taken care of someone other than myself, which was good because I was also pregnant each time.

No such luck this time.  I was alone.  My husband was four thousand miles away, my mother two hundred and fifty, my mother in law nine hundred.  And it was ten o'clock at night.  So, holding my breath, I stripped the sheets, changed Edwin's clothes, washed out his ear and hair, and said a silent prayer of gratitude that Edwin's other blanket was not in the crib when he vomited.

After calming him down, I dressed him in new pajamas, got out the only other crib sheet we have, and grabbed his blanket from the couch.  I put him down, and got myself ready for bed again.

And then he started crying, again.  More clothes went into the bathtub, awaiting morning light to be washed in the community laundry room.  Edwin went to bed on an extra twin sheet from the girls, Sophia's piggy pajamas, and Sophia's little blanket (thankfully, he will sleep with his sister's blanket).

This time I didn't bother turning off the light, and got out a book.  Half an hour later, he started crying, and I rushed to his room, and managed to get him to the sink before most of the vomit hit, saving the blanket, but not the pajamas.  This time we settled down to watch the last forty-five minutes of Ocean's 11 with a bowl on hand.  I had to save that last blanket, or all would be lost.

Edwin waited until George Clooney had tricked the mean casino owner to toddle around for three minutes before the now-familiar sound started.  I had the bowl ready, despite his objections, and caught only a small amount, what looked to be the last contents of his stomach.  So, off to bed in more of Sophia's pajamas.

Thinking of that one last blanket, I read until 12:30, and then went to sleep myself, praying that I could sleep until morning.  Which I did.  And then I took a filthy heap downstairs, to do the laundry.