Tired

Last night I had one sick kid and one bedwetter. Granted it was not I who had to make the bedwetter a nest of clean linens on the floor next to us, but I did have to wake up enough to answer the questions from the sick kid, in his own nest on the floor, about why the light was on and why his older sister peed in her bed. Not to mention the fact that I would check the temperature of his sleeping forehead every time I rolled over and grazed my tender belly button enough that my irrational nurses-know-too-much-to-be-parents fear of West Nile and Ebola seeped in to my unconsciousness and disrupted my already scarce REM.

Needless to say, the child has neither West Nile nor Ebola, but I am beyond tired. I am off to change the virus-infested pillowcases on my bed, where both children fell asleep (I am hoping the third enforced voiding has rendered child #1 continent, at least while in my bed), I am going to read for no more than 5 minutes, even though it's a good book (Possession by AS Byatt) and go to sleep. No child shall throw up, or cough, or pee until 6 am. I have decreed.