Put your SARS face mask on if you want to come in our house because everyone’s sick except mom and even my days might be numbered!
Crosley has no appetite, she’s not even asking for freeze yogurt so obviously she’s caught some kind of bug.
And Blythe woke up in a pile of her own vomit. VOMIT! I’m running around trying to get out the door and now I’ve gotta bathe a child too?? No time to clean up this murder scene. Or maybe she was finger painting with her own acidic bile? She’s an abstract artist down-cycling her crib. Either way, curds of yesterday’s dinner are crusted into what little hair she has and now I feel sick too.
I drop the kids off at daycare and it’s no longer my problem. For now.
At work I get texts from Blake he’s going home early. When I get home I find him sprawled on the couch looking like death (sorry Blake but it’s true). Men don’t handle sickness well, this isn’t new information. The girls are running this show and they’ve decided to play with ALL the toys.
Blythe’s in Crosley’s room and I hear a loud disgusting retch, I race down the hall and find my second born stunned by what just came out of her. She has no idea why this is happening; she gives me a look like she’s sorry; she didn’t mean it; and whatever it is, there’s going to be more. I scoop her up and run her to the bathroom. We’re. Almost. There. And baaaaarf all over the bathroom door, tile, carpet, my arm. As if I needed commentary, Crosley yells “ew that’s gross, it’s all over the carpet, Blythee, you gotta do that in the potty, I’m gonna tell dad!” Yeah you do that...make sure he’s still alive.
I undress Blythe, poor baby, and throw her in the tub, remove my shirt and start cleaning.
Cros comes back and I ask her if she’s sick too “I threw up at Gram’s house.” “Yes, on Saturday, I know, but do you feel sick now?” “I threw up in a napkin.” “Also true, but how does your tummy feel right now?” “I feel like a pumpkin pie.”
I don’t know what to do with that information so I get back to the job at hand: getting sopitas and zanahorias out of my carpet.
I start a load of laundry that smells worse than Blake’s workout gear (dry crusty morning vomit and fresh nasty too). No matter what I do I can’t seem to kick this smell. Like it’s following me.
At dinner Miss Pumpkin Pie eats some noodles and Blythe is signing she wants some. I give her a few bites and bleeeeeeeeh again.
Blythe, you’re done! No. She’s not. New smell. She’s got that diarrhear (I heard an Arky say they had that diarrhear once and decided it’s my favorite thing to say). I change that near-blowout, slap her bottom with diaper rash cream and lay her down. Took her all of two minutes to pass out. This room still smells like vomit but I just can’t deal with that right now.
I read Cros a story and she says a sweet prayer for “sister, Brent, Uncle Brandon, and Brent”. “Still feel like a pumpkin pie?” “I feel like sunshine.” “Good, I love you.” and I’m done.
Except I’m not. There’s a barf bib sitting in the sink, toys all over the house, and a husband still dying on the couch.
Plus I’m hungry and still not wearing a shirt and I’m pretty sure there’s baby barf under my fingernails. Yep, that’s exactly what it is.
Looks like I won’t be running tonight.
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