I wake up nauseated. This is not morning sickness, I tell myself, because all of my friends have been puking, and not just the pregnant ones... so many pregnant friends. I think harder. No, this is not morning sickness, or food poisoning, or anything except the stomach bug that is going around and it has got me. Conveniently, this happens on the first day that the MOG is completely out of pocket due to teen camp duties.
Observation: I have been known to question the usefulness of men, but I cannot deny that stuff happens as soon as they are unavailable. It is SCIENCE. If the basement is going to flood, multiple children are going to vomit, a sniper takes out your back tire on the freeway, etc, these things will happen as soon as the male in your life is totally unavailable. They will happen as his plane leaves the ground or his phone battery dies. Feminism meets her match in those moments.
I make a goal. "I will not puke", I say. "I will do everything in my power to not puke." as God in heaven laughs. My children, who have been awake for hours, catch wind that I am ill. "Maaaaaaawwwwwwmmmmm," they scream, "can we eat cookies for breakfast?" I nod weakly, because no one is listening anyway. Tristan comes up with his cookie for a little snuggle time. "I'm sick," I groan, "I can't cuddle you, I'm sick." He takes it in stride and does jumping jacks on the bed, crumbs flying as I clutch my stomach and beg God for the sharp knife of a short life.
At one point, I make a mad dash for the bathroom, closing and locking the door as Tristan bangs on the door and howls at the heavens. I kneel on the floor and am suddenly made horribly aware of the state of my bathroom. "This is the grossest bathroom in the world," I think. "This is worse than that Quik-E Mart in El Paso. When I get better I am going to clean this bathroom." Time passes as I camp in this location. I give passing thought to taking a pity-selfie but decide against it, which is why this post will have no pictures. #regrets
I do notice, as I scroll through Instagram while laying on the floor, that my husband is making a rap video for teen camp. Because I am selfless and very near the end of my days, I forgive him.
Eventually, I hobble downstairs, because I am the only grownup and the government requires that children be fed. I make lunch for them and feebly request that no one eat it in the sunroom, or the living room, or anywhere. As I stop by the bathroom before attempting the stairs, I am sure I can hear the sound of macaroni bouncing on the tile floor of the sunroom. I carry on.
"When Cameron was in Egypt's land," I sing to myself from my deathbed, and then watch an excessive amount of television, which is all gross. Toby stops by, wise to his power. "Mom," he says from the doorway, "can we play Vampire Bikini Bordello Party?" or something like that. I raise my hand faintly in protest. "Thanks, mom!" he cries, running away.
The MOG stops by with crackers and Sprite. It has been hours, so I nibble cautiously. Various children stop by the sickroom. "WHAT?" they say, shocked, "Why didn't I get any crackers?" I let them take one, two, many crackers, which I know they will eat on the stairs, crumbs stretching like a Hansel and Gretel path for all of the ants, who will eventually find their way to my room.
The MOG comes home as the children are being desperately entreated to please, for the love, to go to bed. He takes over, using a Dad Voice, and they scatter and I go back upstairs to collapse in my cracker nest. The day is over, the stomach bug mostly conquered and life goes on. Next up: cleaning the bathroom. Tomorrow.