Lena is still wearing her three-day-old pajamas. A flour streak sits on her right breast. Dry oatmeal and syrup cover her middle. Her shoulder is wet from where Mariana projectile vomited that supposedly bubblegum flavored medicine.
“I miss cuddling with my wife,” she croaks. “How much longer until projectile vomit and sore throat season end?”
“I might never come back to our bed. I am getting used to sleeping in the shower,” Stef threatens. “I can sleep in without babes poking my eyes.”
Lena rolls over to face the wall covered with crayon drawings.
“I hate this season.”