Rock stars and puke

Did the title grab you? that's what we writer's aim for, you know. I think it might be a little too predictable.
The Cowgirl reached celebrity status by waking up at five this morning and puking every ten minutes until six thirty.
No fever. No other complaints. She got a bed on a floor, her own puke bucket and a bottle of water.
And fame.
When I opened my incredibly groggy eyes the dancer was kneeling by the cowgirl, eyes wide, face rapt.
(So then my tummy didn't want that food and I made a sound like this....
-Tell me another story, sissy.)
Ahh, those sweet moments of togetherness.

I just had to stop writing to put a Band-Aid on the Dancer's hangnail. It was a particularly spry Dora frolicking with Boots under a rainbow. Worth at least a can of creamed corn.

Right now they are snuggled on the living room floor watching Ramona and Beezus, and apparently feeling fine except for the Cowgirl being a little dizzy.
I wonder if riding for two hours at the barn had anything to do with it. I almost lost a couple fingertips trying to bridle the horse with all those little buckles while the windchill was -5 and the blood was leaving my extremities in a mass exodus to preserve my brain and heart.
It was just a bit much. Think we will huddle in warmth today and do a lot of nothing.

And P.S. pregnant Brandi, if you need a place to hang out, you would achieve true rock star status at our house. Just bring your own bucket.