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Full of Hot Air

I never get enough of my kids during the day, so it's always a treat when one of them finds their (drink) way to my bedroom in the middle of the night. Especially with a stomachache. Last night it was Eleanor. "Do you feel like you're going to throw up?" I asked immediately, springing out of bed and steering her to the bathroom before she could answer. "No." Phew! I hate puke. But I continued our rush to the bathroom just in case. She's five (drink) years old and not necessarily capable of identifying symptoms. There was still a chance of projectile vomit all over the carpet.

I started to relax as I assessed the patient and after (drink) a series of questions she struggled to answer (Where exactly does it hurt? Do you need to poop? Is it a sharp pain or a dull cramp? Are you hungry?), I finally identified the problem. Gas.

Coaching a five year old to fart at 2 a.m. is a super fun way to spend (drink) a night. I prescribed directives like 'Squeeze your tummy in!' 'Assume child's pose and stick your butt in the air!' Soon enough, she was ripping ass. Did you know the average person farts about 14 times per day? I'm pretty sure Eleanor saved all hers for the overnight shift. She caught onto the game quickly, triumphing in her (drink) flatulence. "I tarted!" she declared, using the term she mistakenly uses for the word "fart."

When I was satisfied that she had expelled enough gas to improve her tummy trouble, I walked her back to bed and rubbed her back while she tossed and turned, still a little achy, but I could tell (drink) on the mend. I knew the only way to get her to fall asleep was to stay by her side so I grabbed a blanket and curled up in a very uncomfortable ball beside her bed.

You may recall that the twins and Kaleb have been bunking together in the twin's room. Kaleb took over Eleanor's bed leaving the little runt on a futon on the ground with a very narrow gap between her nest and the dresser. That's the gap I was trying to squeeze into. I could sense her drifting off to sleep so was careful not to move. Each time I shifted the slightest bit, her eyes fluttered open, ensuring I was not attempting an escape. I desperately wanted to straighten my legs, but refrained from stirring, as I willed her into the REM phase of sleep.

After about ten minutes, I was fairly certain she was out. But despite the cramp in my calf, I resisted my getaway to ensure the mission was accomplished. Back pedaling now would be detrimental to my master plan and set me up for another half hour, at least, in the gap.

Finally, I was satisfied that the risk factor (drink) of her waking was minimal so I began the arduous process of extricating myself from her room. I never know whether to proceed slowly and tediously or quickly, like (drink) ripping off a band-aid. I opted for slow and steady, banking on the most quiet approach for the win. Also, bear in mind that Kaleb and Cynthia had slept through the entire ordeal, so there were three risk factors at stake. A stealth and hushed technique was key.

First step...sit up. I held my breath, my eyes darting from kid to kid, thinking surely one of the would stir. But they were still. Next step...remove blanket. This could be dangerous. I very gently peeled it back, aware of every crush the fibers of the fabric made. In the silence of the night, it sounded like a thunderstorm. Kaleb rolled over. I froze and mentally counted to ten as I squatted beside the discarded blanket, holding my breath. Step three...walk to the door. I stood (drink) carefully and started navigating the path. It was only about six feet to the door, but it seemed like an entire football field. On tippy toes, I put one foot forward. Creeak. Oh no. No. No. No. That was so loud. But I was still prevailing. (Drink) With each step, another loud creak. Has the floor always been this squeaky? I made it to the door without incident but I was standing before my arch nemesis. The door knob.

I stared it down like a boxer preparing an attack on his opponent. 'Come on Jill, you can do this,' I psyched myself up mentally. Slowly, I twisted the knob and pushed the door ajar. Another loud creeaak. Damn it! This was the loudest of all. I froze again, the knob turned 180 degrees in my hand and I was careful not to let it go. My back was to the kids now, but I heard no signs that they detected my departure. I slipped out the door, creaked the door closed behind me, slowly released the knob back to the closed position and flinched as it clicked into place. But I wasn't in the clear yet. Moving quickly now, I tiptoed down the hallway, down the stairs, and threw open the door to my room, not caring if the loud creaks and clicks woke James (which they didn't...why can guys sleep through a literal tornado and my I sit bolt upright in bed if I hear a moth blink?). Closing the door behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief and snuggled into bed which took on a whole new dimension of comfort.

But I couldn't sleep. My heart was still racing from the perilous quest and I kept thinking I was hearing a kid crying. Twice I got up, certain I could (drink) make out the word "mooooom," in the silence of the night. But it was just my imagination and I finally found my way back to a restless slumber.

Eleanor, on the other hand, slept soundly until 9 a.m., at which point I decided to wake her for fear of a late-to-bed; late-to-rise pattern emerging. She awoke, blurry-eyed, barely remembering the gaseous events of the night. She is the epitome of health and energy today while I, on the other (drink) hand, feel a little ravaged and sore from the confinement of the gap. I'll take it though. There was no puke, and the gas was short lived. I'm getting good at counting blessings these days.

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