I could have used one of these suits this weekend; Apparently, my house was where the bubonic plague decided to take up residence the past 48 hours or so.
First it was Trot who started with a runny nose and ended up expelling what I'm POSITIVE was more than his body weight until late yesterday afternoon. Just when I thought we were out of the woods, Angie gets sick in a way I never read in one of those "What to expect when you get married" books we read 16 years ago. I'm a firm believer that God never intended for a man to see his wife do the following: A. Go to the bathroom, B. Give birth, and C. Throw up.
That is why he invented Doctors and doors.
During the night I wake up to what I initially believe is a flock of seagulls coming down the chimney; turns out it was just Rakes flipping out because he had gotten sick in his bed. And on the floor. And all over his stuffed animals.
Remember, the one who SHOULD be handling this is riding the porcelain highway, so here I am disheveled, half asleep, and muttering under my breath about that stupid Bing Crosby/David Bowie version of "Little Drummer Boy". Just when it can't get any better....
Ciera turns into that kid from the Exorcist around 8:30 this morning. Honest to God, I kept watching her, video camera at the ready, waiting for her head to swivel 360 degrees. How I have not gotten this entity yet is beyond me; I've rubbed my hands raw washing them under scalding hot water and I think I cleaned WalMart out of Lysol.
Thankfully it looks like the worst is over; Trot has been asleep for over an hour and Rakes went down 30 minutes ago without me having to threaten to barricade his door with a refrigerator. Ciera is eating an ice pop in my bed and Angie's skin color no longer makes chalk look like a neon sign.
I really hope Santa is bringing me syringe full of Horse Tranquilizer tomorrow night.
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