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Monday, November 5, 2012

I Wouldn't Be Surprised If The Zombie Apocalypse Starts In My House.


We had the plague last week. Still do, technically.

It all started Wednesday morning, with Kiedis waking us up crying in what sounded like panic at 6 AM. I sent Kyle, since it was almost time for him to get up anyway, and lo and behold, our child had vomited all over himself and nearly all of his earthly in-his-room belongings.

Rinse and repeat for the next couple of hours, with me getting up way earlier than I usually do to take over vom-catching duties so Kyle could get ready for and get to an early meeting.

I was kind of bummed that of ALL DAYS, Kiedis was going to miss the preschool Halloween parade, which we were pretty sure he'd have loved and been awesome at since we'd Trick or Treated the night before and he actually did really well. But vomit is vomit and the child wasn't keeping anything down, so I called school and left a message and was wondering what he could have eaten that we all didn't that made him so sick and us not.

Ha! I am so naive sometimes it's painful.

During the day Wednesday, I was notified by a friend that her daughter (who's house we'd been at on Saturday) had hand, foot, and mouth disease and since her girl and Tova were all up on each other like lifelong BFFs, I immediately side-glared at my redheaded ball of beautiful tyranny and noticed her cheeks were flushed as my friend told me that the first sign is a fever.


I shortly thereafter discovered our main temporal thermometer is broken, and that my children have absolutely NO PATIENCE WHATSOEVER for the under the tongue kind and I couldn't get a reading. So instead of having numbers to grade my level of concern on, I pretty much had the to-the-touch meter and the how-flushed-is-she-now gauge going.

That was awesome.

Kiedis appears to be better by Wednesday night, but I'm so wiped from the two of them being whiny and sick and him projectile vomiting that the next morning I decide to keep him home again, because, well, the best I have is that I'm psychic.

The other end of that child began to explode. Right as his teacher texted me to let me know that both she and the class aide were both godawful sick to their stomachs so WATCH OUT, SHIT'S CONTAGIOUS.

I should have known better Thursday night when my throat was tight and nothing was quite sitting right that I was up to bat, but sometimes for all of my hyper-awareness, I'm not all that bright.

Friday morning found me just dragging my feet as Tova's feet broke out in the rash the CDC website warned me about (because I don't mess when it comes to contagious child diseases) and sure enough, puking head first into a bucket as I lay pathetically on the couch.

There was a moment of sweetness here, though, as when I began to puke my kids ran over, both of them patting my back gently. Tova kept saying "woo aw-wiiiiite? ah woo aww-wiiiiiiiite?" and Kiedis kept saying "Is okay Mommy, is okay" I felt in that moment that I must be doing something right as a parent. Or else my kids are VERY intuitive.

It was soothing, too, to not feel completely alone in that moment, even if I did have to clean up my own puke.

So I called Kyle at school, who called my mom so she could come over and sit with the kids so I could sleep and not puke all over them, perpetuating this cycle.

Oh, if only it were that easy.

My mom came over, I went to bed, Kyle came home at some point, all plans for the weekend (including a burlesque show and a friend's surprise 30th birthday party, never mind a ton of work I've fallen behind on) went out the window.

Most of Saturday was spent wiping Kiedis' butt, texting with his teacher about how awful this was coming out the other end (I know feel like we're legit friends due to that conversation, as she was giving me fair warning as she checked up on all of us) and that other kids came down with it Thursday, trying to keep down food, and watching Kiedis start to feel better ... as Kyle began to feel worse.

You see, Kyle doesn't get sick like a normal person. I would be dying of pneumonia and he'd have a little tickle in the back of his throat. We'd been making jokes up until Saturday night that he was just going to burp a couple of times and maybe fart once or twice and he'd be done.

Until he told me he didn't want dinner. Or really anything other than Sprite or water.

Then I knew we were in trouble.

All day Sunday was spent with him in bed and me trying to manage two sick, stir-crazy kids while still sick myself, as well as just hunkering down and doing as much crap as I could do without leaving the house (which isn't as much as I need, but lord, I'm scared to take this thing outside) as Kyle informs me that my mom is now sick and I'm pretty sure I have a fever but I can't check because we don't have a thermometer that doesn't trigger my already-tired gag reflex but shit isn't going to get done if I don't do it, so I spend most of the day in a legit manic panic about everything going on and how much needs to get done and whether or not either male in my house is going to school in the morning and what's that you said about Daylight Savings are you fucking kidding me this day is now magically LONGER?!?!?

So that's why I dropped off the face last week. We all almost died.

Good news is I finished the books I needed to have done and discovered Daria is on Amazon Prime.

So I guess not all is lost.  Just almost everything.

Including my sanity, right down the toilet with the contents of my stomach for the last five days.