I've been cleaning up various bodily fluids, in a variety of forms, for the past few days. Last night I was treated to a surprise explosion of vomit from the boy, who previously had been improving, as I was bringing him to bed.

The mess spread through three rooms. Even when I got him to the bathroom ... or the sink. ... or a bucket ... the kid had no idea I've done so in order for there to be less putrid for me to cleanup later. He's poker straight, spewing forward. Trying to get him to curl up even enough to point his mouth in the right direction is like trying to bend iron.

So when Annabel appeared in the middle of the night, I resigned myself to being a third-shift worker in the sick house: part nurse, part orderly, and, with my own gurgling stomach, part patient.

She said she had a "bad dream," but I suspected their might be more to it. I instructed her to go and get her pillow and blanket and we'd camp out on the couch, watching the tail end of 27 Dresses.

A few minutes later, she's off the couch and running. By the time I got to the bathroom she'd already managed to position herself right over the bowl. All I had to do was rub her back until her stomach had emptied, give her glass of water to rinse her mouth and wipe her face with a warm cloth.

Not only does she know the cues that would lead a person to fleet-foot it to the commode, but it's pretty apparent that she's chewing her food pretty well, too.

Growing up sure has it's pluses.