I love my job because it doesn't feel like work. Except sometimes it does.
Lunchtime, today. Lilly goes into hysterics when I mention lunch, so I put her downstairs in the basement (there isn't a door, and it's not far) to scream where she couldn't bother Patrick and I. He ate slowly, reluctantly; she came up for a few bites and ended up back in a tantrum and back downstairs.
Toward the end, he said his tummy hurt and he had to go potty. Lilly had been quiet in the basement. Patrick and I went upstairs; he sat on the potty, then projectile vomited all over the bathroom.
I cleaned him and the room up (and gagged some; usually I'm good with vomit, but sometimes not so much), took him back downstairs to watch tv, went down a few stairs to peek into the basement, and saw Lilly conked out on the couch, on her side, fingers in her mouth.
At that point, I metaphorically threw up my hands, and called their mom.
In the end, everyone ate, everyone watched tv, and everyone (thankfully) went down for naps at the proper time. I'm just glad that after tomorrow, I'm off until next Monday.