"Do I seriously have to do this again?" I thought as I rolled out of bed, stumbling to the door. It was the fifth round of clean-up that night. I stripped the bed (after a momentary "could I just throw a towel on it?"), cleaned up my scared, shaking daughter, remade the bed, and tucked her back in, kissing her and reminding her that the bowl was on the floor if she needed it (in hopes that I could avoid some clean up). I added the dirty sheets to the growing basket on the stairs, and crawled back into bed with a 13 month old who suddenly needed to nurse. Sleep must have overcome me at some point because I startled awake to do it all over again an hour later. Have I succeeded in making you feel sorry for me? Have I convinced you of my martyrdom? I am ashamed to say that those were not even the worst thoughts running through my head, and I could honestly recount that story much more pathetically. It happened the next day. My children were feeling a *little* bett...