After hosting two big parties and undergoing lots of drama – including snakes and jumping toilets – in the previous two weeks, this week I let out a big sigh of relief: onwards and upwards, turning a new page, and all that.
I had been cooking real meals and going on playdates and helping out friends, when allofasudden we were laid low by those two words that strike fear into the heart of every mother: Stomach. Bug.
Now, as I’ve mentioned before (and much more frequently to my unfortunate friends), vomit is my parenting cross. I am blessed with good sleepers and good teethers and not-so-bad eaters (even if I do hate feeding my children). But vomiting – boy oh boy, are my boys good at that. We went through at least two years of regular gagging-and-vomiting sequences, often multiple times per day.
But my boys had never had a stomach bug. And I knew it was only a matter of time.
Sure enough, on Thursday our time came due. It struck me first: I called Brennan to come home from work (like, now) and I handed off the screaming baby to my mother-in-law. A short while later, I called my newly-returned husband on my cell from upstairs (oh, don’t you love technology) and asked him to go buy some Gatorade.
That’s never a promising request.
(A cute aside: Brennan brought home Powerade instead, which my two-year-old insists on calling “Poweradorade.”)
Several hours later, I was exhausted and depleted and had pulled my neck muscles from the force of it all. Brennan headed downstairs to sleep on the sofa. Just in time for – you guessed it! – the two-year-old to wake up screaming and sick. Then just as we finished cleaning him up, it was the four-year-old’s turn.
It’s a good thing that vomit no longer holds any power over me.
So I spent the rest of the night “enjoying” a little sleepover with my boys, armed with bowls and wet washcloths and “Poweradorade” and Windex.
The next day, thank goodness, the boys were back to their usual wrestling lion cub antics, with a couple of extra naps thrown in to make up for the night before.
But I was a hot mess: weak and exhausted and dizzy, with an awful headache and a terrible pain in my neck. By the time Brennan got home from work, I could barely muster a “Hi. Good night.” before I dragged myself upstairs and into bed, not even bothering to change my clothes.
Oh, well. I knew it was bound to happen at some point. We’re all on the mend and (though I know I shouldn’t dare mention it!) we’re very lucky that the baby didn’t catch the bug.
Beautiful, healthy little thing.
But you know what really stinks? We missed out on crabs!
Brennan and I had lined up a sitter for Friday night. Because we were to go out. Without children. With family. For crabs!
Please let next week be kind of “normal.” Please?
Check out more, probably less pathetic Hot Messes over at Blythe’s!