Good thing I did, by 11:00 a.m. she had thrown up every bit of water and every crumb of cracker she had managed to eat. She felt fine aside from having to remain sequestered on the area of the couch I had covered in towels. Puke bucket in hand, we headed to the doctor to find out she simply has a stomach virus. You know the one, the nasty little son of a you-know-what that inhabits every school room and communal plaything from here to eternity. Armed with a list of approved foods, we went home and had a vomit-free evening.
The doctor had said that after 8 hrs of not puking, I could give her bland food. She woke up in a fabulous mood and had bananas and yogurt for breakfast that stayed down. Good. She had insisted on mac and cheese, but I'm a breakfast traditionalist and refused to allow it (that's fodder for another post). I aquiesced at lunch seeing as it had been over 24 hours since her last incident. This, my friends, was my downfall. I should have known by the two wardrobe changes we had already had due to the Hershey's squirts that the dastardly virus was still running amuck. I was eating my lunch (Velveeta and corn chips...hey, I was tired and had cleaned up poop all morning, mkay?) and AC wasn't. She told me her tummy hurt. This was sign no. 2. Sign no. 3 was a blaring billboard with lights and sirens: "Mommy, I think I'm gunna puke." I shot off the couch as fast as my legs could carry me (which wasn't very fast, ever try running on hardwood floors in wool socks?) to grab the puke bucket in time. It was like a slow motion scene in a movie. I rounded the corner and dove with the bucket seconds too late. What was once my beautiful clean couch was now a slimy, pukey mess. Fabulous. To AC's credit, she froze where she was awaiting frazzled and screaming instructions. I flung her off the couch in a spray of Powerade-blue, half-digested macaroni noodles and had her head to the bathroom to strip. Oh. My. God. It was one of those moments where I briefly, albeit seriously, entertained the thought of dragging the mess outside and burning it instead of attempting to clean it up.
Couch cleaned, hardwood wiped, carpet picked clean and scrubbed, AC yells at me that she has, again, had a diarrhea attack. More poop. Hooray. No sooner do I get AC cleaned up and back on a vinyl covered cleaned couch, Rory wakes from her nap screaming with a poopy diaper. MORE poop. Now my house smells like cleaner, puke, baby poop, and diarrhea...wouldn't you know it, the doorbell rings. *Insert looney bin laughing here* Thank God it was only my father-in-law, he sat on the couch and talked to AC and held the baby while I finished cleaning up the bathroom and started laundry. The baby wasn't having it though and SCREAMED the ENTIRE TIME.
Ladies and gentlemen, this all happened before 2:00 in the afternoon!!! We didn't get up until 10:00 a.m.!!!!! I'll give you the quick version of the rest of the day: AC peed EVERYWHERE during her nap (more laundry and bodily fluids...I'm developing a tick), the baby will not stop screaming unless she is touching some part of Mommy's body, the chicken I had intended to eat for dinner wouldn't cook all the way through, the puke laundry has developed blue nasty fuzzballs all over it and won't come clean, and to top it all off, the garbage disposal is backing up into the other side of the sink and the landlady can't come fix it until TOMORROW MORNING. I have a headache that I don't think even the trucker sized portion of wine I have will cure. I want to go to a hotel and curl up on the sheets that I don't have to wash and cry. Can you tell I don't even have the energy to be witty??
All I can say is, thank God this day is almost over.
Until then,
AC 'n' Rory's Mom
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