We are on the tail end of the tummy bug. It’s not a big deal when Christian, 18, or Cole, 13 have it. They are big and can take care of themselves. A little hot tea, some chicken soup, a sympathetic look and I’m done. But when the little ones, Dane and Tessa, get sick… well… my life gets a little tougher.
I’m a huge fan of horror movies. Always have been. Something about being scared out of my skin just makes me feel alive. However, when the lovely puke scene from the Exorcist visits my bedroom in the middle of the night. Not a big fan.
I’d literally gotten all tucked in and comfortable, and believe Dave when he says this is a process, when Dane sat up (we are in the process of weaning him from our bed, he’s currently on a mattress in our room) and literally projectile vomited halfway across the room. It’s a big room.
And, honestly, I’m mom enough that one time would have been fine. But he repeated this 4 times through the night. Why? Why? Why can’t little guys ever make it to the toilet on time?
The really, truly horrible part? I’m still washing it all up. I’ve got a lovely, top-of-the-line even, 5kg washing machine. I so miss my extra huge capacity US-spec washer. And my dryer is not a dryer. It’s a centrifuge. Or as I like to call it a “Water Sucker Outer”. The clean-up is taking me forever.