The Calling

In the wee hours this morning I was brutally torn from my slumber by......The Calling....
"Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmm!"
I reach over to George Clooney's shirt and.......
"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!"
rip it open....buttons fly across the room..............
"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"
Oh my God, my child is being murdered!!!
Awake now....."What? Whatwhatwhatwhat?"
(this better be good 'cause I probably won't be able to channel George when I go back to sleep).
"Bratley is being sick......." (no, that's not his real name - except at three o'clock in the morning).
"Oh gross. Muuuuum, Bratley is being sick ALL OVER THE BEDROOM!!"
I stumble into the lair whereThing 1 and Thing 2 nest and am promptly slapped in the face with the acrid odour of vomit.  I switch on the light and then proceed to slip on masticated lamb chop and chocolate pudding.  Poor kid tried to make it to the bathroom, but got as far as swinging his legs over the edge of his bed.  It was a real Power Vomit.  We're talking splash marks on four walls and the window blinds.  I trapse into the kitchen to get the paper towel and an adequate vomit recepticle....leaving a trail of slimey germesticated vomitty footprints. 
"It's ok baby," I coo, "You can't help being sick.  Did you get it on your sheets?" (please god, not the sheets, I only changed them yesterday morning...nothing like having to change sheets at three in the morning with a shivery sick child forlornly watching.)
Sheets are clear, God bless the considerate invalid.
With lavender and eucalyptus oil liberally sprayed, mopped and high-pressure hosed throughout the room and Bratley proclaiming he felt "all better now" I shuffle back to bed to sleep.  With one eye open and ear tuned to flea farts.  George has vacated for the evening.
Perhaps he'll come back tomorrow.