At last writing four out of the seven of us had been captured by the plague of the stomach flu, the bohemians of barf, the hellions of hurl, the pirates of the potty, the….the… Get the picture?
WARNING–this post is not for the weak of stomach. Maranda, I mean you. Just close the page and click away now.
My 14 year old son has been moaning and complaining about a headache since our hour stint at church, and he also said he was starving, but couldn’t eat anything. What? Well, I’m sick of your whining boy, so get up and eat something. I had made grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken soup for the rest of the crew, some of whom are starting to feel better and had been pleading for grilled cheese. So, I helped him up to the counter and served him some food.
“But what if I throw up?” he said in his saddest, most pitiful weak voice.
Full of compassion, I plopped a garbage can in front of him on the counter, and said, “Here you go. Throw up in that.” Because really, did I mention that I’m not feeling all that great, either? I’ve got a husband with the runs who’s upstairs napping, three kids who either are currently or have been throwing up in the last 24 hours, and a disaster of a house. There’s one load of barf laundry in the wash, another post washed barf load in the dryer, and then there’s the laundry pile up from yesterday that I didn’t get to. I’m kind of at the end of my rope here, kids, and I’m TRYING to take care of you, but you’ve got to help me out just a little bit.
So, my dear son takes one bite of soup and I hear that sound. THAT SOUND that is immediately followed by THAT SMELL! Now he’s throwing up, too. I wait until he’s done, take that garbage can and dump it out, then rinse it out, all the while thanking my lucky stars that I’m not a nurse. And wishing that I wouldn’t have to be a nurse for very much longer.
So, that’s five out of seven of us. Only Megan and I remain in the no barfs club.
When I’ve reached the end of my sanity and can’t stand to hear the droning of the television, I send the healthiest of the bunch outside with some bubbles. Go blow some bubbles. Or spill it all over yourselves. Just go outside for five minutes. Please.
A few minutes later my little boy walked by and smelled bad. “Do you need to use the potty?” I ask suspiciously.
“No,” he said, “I pooped.”
You know that movie where the lady’s head spins all the way around? Some horror flick that I’ve obviously never seen because those things scare the bejeebers out of me, but I’ve seen the references. Anyway, I must have looked something like that as I asked him WHY he would poop in his pants. AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGG!!! And just in case you were wondering, No, it wasn’t normal poop. It was runny poop.
So. I give up. I surrender. You win, virus from hell! You win! You are stronger than we are! We give up! Now just please GO AWAY!!