It was the last game of our winter ultimate frisbee season. Despite a promising start, the loss of one of our key players meant we struggled against our opponents. Teams we had handily beat before were now making us look like child's play. So, winning our final game after battling hard the week before was just desserts for us. A celebration was in order. Beers at the Irish pub.
Knowing the monkeys were slumbering and under the watchful eye of our nanny and the grandparents, we decided to stay for a pint.Or two in my case. Sitting under the stars on the patio, sipping a refreshing beer, chatting about frisbee strategies before moving onto inane topics like the uselessness of decorative pillows, the merits of sleep training, and car camping - it was a thoroughly enjoyable post-game setting that brought back memories of life before kids.
Alas, the bewitching hour was near. I ruefully remembered I had to be in court in the morning. The kids' lunches were not yet prepared.
And if that wasn't enough to jolt us back to reality, the sight that welcomed us upon home did.
Three angelic-looking children slumbering in my bed. Upon closer inspection, I realized that Quinn had suffered a bloody nose. His tiny face was streaked with blood. The sheets were likewise, covered in blood. Despite the tipsiness, I had to aid in moving sleeping kids to another bed. Strip down the bed. Find clean sheets. Make a trip down to the laundry room. Tried to pour a steady stream of stain remover onto the soiled sheets. Comfort a whimpering Quinn. Realize too late that his nose was bleeding again. Too tired to figure out if we owned more sheets. Covered the new bloody spots (which spouse tried vainly to blot out) with a towel. Tuck a sleepy toddler back into bed.
I'm pretty sober now. I'd like to crawl into bed next to Quinn. But still sweaty from the game, and still no lunches packed. And I forgot to turn on the washing machine.
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