The Weekly Report On All The Sick This Household Has Been Through

Well, first let me go on the record and share the news that Thing 2 recovered from his bout with the stomach bug nicely.  After throwing up approximately 4,922 times on Thursday, and managing to hit every! single! rug! and! upholstered! piece! of the furniture!, he returned to his normal, rambunctious self.

He also obviously decided that he’d lost entirely too much body weight on Thursday, what with all the NONSTOP, OVER AND OVER AGAIN kind of puking that he engaged in, so he went on an eating rampage to get himself back to his prim-o fight weight.  I had no idea that a two-year-old could pack away the food that Thing 2 ate on Friday, but I’m here to tell y’all that he ate like he was fourteen.

And then I had visions of feeding two boys who are never full, and I just needed to lie down and weep for a moment or twelve, as I wondered if the Lord would be merciful enough to provide the grocery money.

On Friday night, Hubs’ parents came over to our house and shoved us out.  Oh, they did this all very politely, of course, because they wanted Hubs and I to have a real, live, grownup date, and they wanted to cook dinner for the boys.  And, seeing as how Thing 2’s appetite was on level footing with GREAT WHITE SHARK THAT HASN’T EATEN IN A WEEK on Friday, we didn’t put up any fight at all over Grammy wanting to cook for those children.  She told me on Friday afternoon that she thought she’d stop at the grocery store and pick up everything for shrimp scampi, and that’s when I interjected, “But… they make the FROZEN, PRE-MADE shrimp scampi in our grocer’s freezer, and that would be so much easier.”

Because?  It was a royal treat to have a night out on the town with Hubs, and I didn’t want Grammy to feel that she needed to slave over a frying pan in my kitchen, if she didn’t want to.  But Grammy tends to cook everything from scratch, and she is a FANTASTIC, MUCH-WONDERFUL COOK, and I think she sometimes sighs over me, due to that little verse in Matthew 19, that says, “For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh, and she will feed him boxed Hamburger Helper, with nary-a-care to the sodium content and bucket-load-of-chemical-flavor-enhancers-that-cause-cancer-and-tooth-rot.”

But Grammy and Papa came by on Friday evening with fresh shrimp, which had never seen the inside of a deep-freeze, and fresh linguine pasta and a pound of Amish butter and sweet cream and freshly-shaved Parmesan cheese, and suddenly I kind of wanted to stay RIGHT THERE AT HOME, because dinner was smelling quite delicious, as Grammy got it all going on our stove top.

(Never underestimate the power of HOMEMADE.)

(Because the frozen shrimp scampi that COOKS IN FIVE SHORT MINUTES IN MY MICROWAVE may be dead to me forever, after tasting the blue-ribbon version that came out of my kitchen.)

(Which I didn’t cook, because WHAT DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND ABOUT MY SIN OF BUYING THE PROCESSED FOODS SOMETIMES?  But Grammy ROCKED that shrimp scampi dish on Friday night.  She rocked it right out of the ballpark, it was so dadgum good.)

Anyway.

Hubs and I went to a swanky little steakhouse together, and we wore dress-up clothes, like we were real grownups.  And then we searched the menu, and decided that… once again… neither of us could actually order a steak, because Hubs’ grilling abilities has rendered the restaurant versions of steak as VERY BLEAK.  So… we both ended up settling for an old-time comfort food of chicken fried chicken, slathered in the gravy, and I’m here to tell you:  DELICIOUS.  Oh, my word, at ALL the delicious.

And then we kind of waddled out of the restaurant, because it’s hard to engage in a full-on carb overload and walk completely upright afterward.

So Friday night was wonderful.  The boys and their grandparents had a lovely time.  The boy declared that Grammy’s shrimp scampi was his new favorite food, and Hubs and I worried about our insulin levels as we moaned over the fact that heavy gravy takes scads of time to digest properly.

On Saturday, there was some housework going on and some laundry going on, because — even though you play at being very classy grownups who dine at very posh restaurants on Friday night — you still have to face the real world on Saturday morning and admit that if someone doesn’t wash a load of whites, there just won’t be any socks to wear.

(Honestly, we seem to have this problem EVERY SINGLE WEEK.)

(I have no idea why Hubs and I haven’t combined our powerfully intelligent brains and come up with the solution of LET’S JUST BUY A TRUCKLOAD OF NEW SOCKS to overcome this life dilemma, but we haven’t.)

And then on Saturday night, the boy walked into the living room with a very pale face and announced, “Mom?  I don’t feel well.  All of a sudden my stomach feels TERRIBLE!”

Because… OF COURSE IT DOES!  And that is when the boy went down with the same stomach flu that his younger brother had suffered through on Thursday.  There was much heaving and ho-ing over the toilet, and some speculation that, “My stomach hurts so badly, Mom, I might die!”

The good news about the teenage version of boys with the stomach bug is this:  THEY CAN RUN LIKE THE WIND AND HIT A TOILET.  I wanted to clap like a lunatic in appreciation for the fact that the boy didn’t spill a single drop of vomit on any rug or sofa cushion or blanket.  I told Hubs that it was really a turning point  in my job as a mother, because suddenly this fourteen-year-old creature could just run to the bathroom without even telling me, and empty the contents of his stomach DIRECTLY INTO the potty, and all I had to do was offer him a glass of ice water at the end of each puking episode.

And there were MANY puking episodes for me to practice this new transition in our mother / son relationship on Saturday night, as the boy decided that his tummy was in grave turmoil and must be emptied every twenty minutes.

Which brought us to Super Bowl Sunday.  The boy was still down on Sunday morning, so I bravely called our friends, Mike and Stacy.  We were supposed to party and nosh on a mountain of hors d’oeuvres at their house with all kinds of friends, but ALERT!  ALERT!  WE HAVE A LIVE STOMACH VIRUS ON THE PREMISES!

Which is exactly why Hubs and I played the part of mature grownups and threw the very fun Super Bowl party under the bus, so that we could stay at home with our sickie, who wanted nothing to eat on Super Bowl Sunday except some chicken broth and the leftover, red Pedialyte from his brother’s encounter with the stomach flu a couple of days earlier.

But, while the boy was sound asleep on his bed, and while Thing 2 was napping on his bed, I did sneak out of my house, because Wolverine and I had something in common, and it wasn’t our good looks or our facial hair.

Wolverine-x-men-the-movie-19125700-1600-1200I had been so busy for the past month, I hadn’t been able to get in for a manicure, so my claws looked exactly like I was a superhero myself.

It was making putting my contact lenses in very tricky.  I was quite concerned that the words CLAWS and CORNEA should never be used together, so… obviously… something needed to be done, without delay.

(Plus, I couldn’t type.  No, ma’am.  That’s probably something you never think about while you’re watching Wolverine in action on the big screen:  THE MAN CANNOT TYPE ON A KEYBOARD.  My nails and I totally busted that myth out, and it holds true.  Claws are not conducive to the greatest of all secretarial duties.)

(And also the duties of a blog CEO.)

I walked into a little shop downtown, and wasn’t even surprised to discover that I was THE ONLY client at 3:30 on Sunday, because everyone else was busy simmering their Lil’ Smokies in a crockpot and putting the finishing touches on their award-winning chip dip.  The little Vietnamese family pulled out the Dremel tool and took the nails down an inch or seventeen, while they chatted on and on to me about WHAT WAS I COOKING FOR DINNER?  I told them that I wasn’t cooking, because I had hit the hot wing bar at the grocery store after church for Hubs, and also we had a big bowl of guacamole and some chips, and THAT, my friends, was going to do double duty as Super Bowl snacks AND dinner.

And then they kind of gasped, because YOU NO COOK DINNER FOR HUSBAND TONIGHT?

“For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother, and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh, and she will collect the groceries and come home and prepare organic chicken and roasted Brussels sprouts, and she will dice the red bell peppers for the tossed salad.”

(But don’t be surprised if she cheats JUST A TINY BIT and uses the Shake ‘N Bake, because BABY STEPS.)

(And don’t expect her to get up early in the morning and slaughter the chicken and remove all of the feathers, because the good Lord has placed us in a time SUCH AS THIS for a reason, and that reason is that chickens can be bought — WITH ALL THE DIRTY WORK ALREADY DONE FOR YOU — in the refrigerated section of the local Walmart.  If there’s any slaughtering that needs to happen, our family will become VEGETARIANS, if it’s left to me.  We will eat beans and rice and salads, every! single! night!)

So we got to the business of watching the Super Bowl… alone at our house… with no party… because GERMS, GERMS, GERMS.  Hubs and I evaluated the commercials between one another, and discovered that we both loved the Snickers advertisement with the Brady Bunch in it the best.

And then, right smack in the middle of Katy Perry’s halftime show…

… when all the singing and dancing and floating around the stadium was going on…

… while I asked Hubs, “How on earth did they set up an entire DANCE STAGE in the fourteen seconds between the last play and the start of the halftime shenanigans?”…

… I noticed that my stomach felt…

how do I say this in English?

… UNWELL.

And that is when I literally jumped to my feet and said, “I’m sick!  Oh, nooooo!!!!!  I’m sick!!!”

And I put myself to bed with the stomach flu.

I laid in bed, trying to hold my nauseated head very, very still, while I pleaded with Jesus and asked Him, “Please don’t let me throw up the leftover shrimp scampi that I ate for lunch today, because it was so delicious, Jesus, and also I DON’T WANT TO VOMIT SHRIMP!!!!!  PLEASE, LORD, DON’T LET ME THROW UP THE SHRIMP, BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW IF I HAVE THE FORTITUDE TO WITHSTAND THAT!!!!”

I cannot imagine anything worse than puking fish.

And Jesus, y’all, was MERCIFUL.  I never threw up.  Not even a little bit.  But I laid in my bed, thinking that perhaps I might die myself, from all the churning my stomach was doing, and all the spinning that my head was participating in, and then I passed out cold, and slept all night long.

And I woke up feeling very much the same as I did last night.  It’s been a shaky day, y’all.  My stomach has been very tender and my head has been very whirly (even more so than usual), but I think I may be on the mend now.

And I never barfed up seafood.

God is so good!!

Happy Monday night, y’all.

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