It's quiet, the woman's out, the kid's asleep, and I am nodding over a notebook and tea, wearing fuzzy slippers. Just before I give up to sleep, I see pink pajamas disappear into the bathroom. Back to writing.
But there's the sound of a little dinosaur calling. I look up. The two cats look up. They look at me, like I might know something about this. I must be looking at them. Another little dinosaur call. Our fur is up.
I step through the bathroom door, which is open, and see a stream of pink puke fly. I look down and see a circle of pink around my fuzzy slippers. When I lift a foot, it says "gack."
After tossing my slippers aside, after the changing and toothbrushing and soothing, after tucking in on the couch, after scrubbing a mattress, after another call across the wastes, after more tucking in and soothing, after the bucket brigade, I go back to the bathroom and stand with my hands on my hips to collect myself and think what else must be done.
It's midnight and I look down and I'm standing in socks in the same pink pool.