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Z. is my favorite child. Want to know why? Of course you do.

Friday night, D. came to our bed sometime after we were sleeping and made himself comfortable. Sometime after that, he comfortably threw up all over my bed. On Friday night. When I can strip the sheets, but I can't wash them.

So they sat, stinking up my laundry room until Saturday night, by which time my stomach was bothering me, but that's really nothing new, so I ignored it by consuming small handfuls of Chex mix.

Sunday, my stomach continued to hurt. At some point, it became clear to me that I would be throwing up, the question was only how long I would put it off. (The answer: As long as it takes to watch an episode of Numbers on the DVR.) By this time, the children had been sent to bed, and Mr. WG was off at a friend's house.

After I threw up twice, I called Mr. WG and told him to come home. I just feel that if I am suffering and crying, he should be here. He came home and lovingly watched Fringe on the DVR while I lay down, moaned, and occasionally ran to the bathroom to rid myself of the NOTHING that was left inside me.

I went to bed. Mr. WG stayed up to watch TV.

S. made her way down the stairs and told Mr. WG that she threw up all over her bed. Mr. WG told her to go to me, meaning that she should go to bed in my bed with me, but she thought it meant wake me up and tell me, so she did, so I told her to tell daddy to change her sheets. She did, and then she went back upstairs to wait for him.

An hour later, Z showed up with Baby J. "He threw up in my bed," she said. Mr. WG changed the sheets, changed Baby J. and brought him to our bed. Z. went back to bed.

An hour later, S. showed up again. She threw up AGAIN. She climbed in our bed.

And an hour after that, Z. showed up. "I threw up," she said.

"Go get your sheets," said Mr. WG.

Z. just stood there.

"Did you throw up in your bed or in the toilet?" I asked her.

"In the toilet," she said, giving me a strange look.

"I love you, Z." I told her. "You're my favorite."