In an attempt to find my inner happy place, I've fired up my iTunes and am grooving to some vintage Bowie of the coke n' smack-addled, occult-bothering, worryingly paranoid and possibly Nazi-sympathizing variety. Detente has momentarily been achieved, but this looks like it might be a long weekend in the not-so-good way. The kids, for the moment, are glued to the television and neither puking nor pooping. I've accordingly thrown open all the windows. The air in the apartment is still rife with the faint but distinctive whiff of unhappy toddler bodily fluids. The room soon filled with the sickly strains of Johnny & the Sprites, a show that makes me want to unfreeze Walt Disney from his secret cryogenic chamber just so I can brain him with a tire iron. Charlotte sniffily asked for the Disney Channel as opposed to my usual go-to choice, Noggin. Unable to think of any activities for my little testy two, I begrudgingly flicked on the tube. Both kids are irritable, and I'm not far behind them in that capacity. Being that I'm ostensibly supposed to be going out tonight (to see the triumphant return of Firewater to Brooklyn), I volunteered to get up with the kids and let Peg catch a few more Z's. At 6 am, the other one had a disquieting bout of diarrhea (aren't you glad I'm here to share these things with you? You're welcome!) As such, the day has started much earlier than anyone would have preferred. Around midnight last night, one child threw up.
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