I am so happy to report that Thing 2 has survived his encounter with I DRANK SOME STRANGER-KID’S CAPRI SUN JUICE POUCH AT THE PLAYGROUND, WHICH HAD BEEN BAKING IN THE HOT SUN FOR ONLY THE GOOD LORD KNOWS HOW LONG.
However, Thing 2’s mother went down with a nameless germ last night, because apparently something was rotten in the state of Denmark. I’m pretty sure I caught this bug by simply WATCHING my toddler manhandle and slurp the remains of an abandoned juice pouch.
Either that, or the enchiladas that I made for dinner were tainted.
I went to bed last night at 9:00.
I was well.
I was VERY well.
And then I woke up at 11:30, and I could only assume that I had contracted Ebola, because I was most definitely NOT well any longer, as I felt like I was on the brink of the death spiral.
There’s absolutely no pretty way to say this, so I’ll just blurt it out: My colon exploded, exactly like a Yellowstone National Park Super Volcano.
(Are we still friends?)
(Is this too much information?)
All I can say is that I suddenly wished that our toilet had been installed with handles, because this was a counter-gripper, if ever there was one. WHY DON’T TOILETS ACTUALLY HAVE HANDLES TO GRIP IN EMERGENCIES?
Of course, this is when the toddler opened his bedroom door and hollered out that he was awake, and that he would be opting out of the sleep option, which is when I woke Hubs up and announced, “Listen. The baby is up, and I am in the throes of Ebola here, so I’m going to need you to handle things on that front.”
Hubs took a blanket and a pillow to Thing 2’s bedroom and set up camp on his floor, where he was prepared to snap his fingers like a crazed man, every single time the toddler pushed a toe over the edge of his bed. Our rule is simple: If you want to be awake… well… there’s not much we can do about that, because HOW CAN WE ENFORCE SLEEP WITHOUT BENADRYL IN THE BEDTIME BOTTLE?… but you WILL stay on your bed. Oh, you WILL stay there on that bed! There will be no toys and no books; there will be no dancing or merriment.
Meanwhile, I maintained my post in the bathroom, where everything that I have eaten since 1987 came out of my colon.
And then the real tragedy struck, because OH, DEAR BATMAN’S MOTHER! I’M GOING TO START PUKING, TOO. Because our bathroom is not equipped with two toilets, sitting side-by-side, I did the best I could with the garbage bucket. My first gut-emptier was spot on.
I wasn’t so lucky with the second gut-emptier, because… well… do you even know what happens when vomit is ejected at the speed of light and it hits a garbage can being held ten inches away?
I believe it’s called a Splatter Pattern or the Ricochet Effect.
The extreme force of my homemade enchilada dinner LEAVING knocked the garbage can out of my hand, and the rest just went onto the floor.
And that, people, is when I called for help. I yelled and yelled for Hubs to come to my rescue, because THERE IS A NUCLEAR WASTE LAKE ON OUR BATHROOM FLOOR!! I’m pretty certain that I heard Hubs holler out, “I’m with the baby! The helpless baby! The baby needs me! I cannot leave the baby! I have shut the baby’s bedroom door, because the baby needs me in here alone!”
So I yelled for the boy, because what I desperately needed was a roll of paper towels, some wet rags, a beach towel or sixteen, some Clorox spray and the National Guard. The boy woke up, staggered into the bathroom to see WHY ON EARTH HIS MAMA WAS ENGAGING IN A DEATH CALL, and he immediately gagged and ran.
Thirty seconds later, an entire roll of paper towels came flying into the bathroom, exactly like they were a grenade being thrown into a house of criminal activity. Thirty seconds after that, two wet washcloths came flying into the bathroom, because someone wasn’t emotionally strong enough to bring them in himself.
About this time, the boy hollered out, “Mom? I’m going to call Mam. Or Grammy. I think we need a grandma here to help you! Mom, did you hear me? We need a grandma! A grandma could help you clean that mess up! I’m calling both of the grandmas, Mom!”
Which he did.
Right before he gagged again and said, “I wish that I could help you, Mom, but I can’t! I can’t help you! This is an awful gross mess!”
I’m also pretty sure that Hubs was still crying out from Thing 2’s room, “I’m STILL with Thing 2! The helpless baby NEEDS ME!! I AM NEEDED IN HERE!! I have the baby, and he and I are safe!”
Sometime around 12:30 this morning, the boy brought in our oil diffuser, which he’d filled with water and essential oils. He said, “Mom, I Googled WHAT OILS HELP YOU WHEN YOU ARE VOMITING, and I found out which ones to use, so I’m going to help you this way. I’m sorry I couldn’t help with the mess, but I can help with these oils.”
Which is how the diffuser came to be by my bedside. And then the boy brought a third cold washcloth, which he put on my forehead.
And then he ruined all of his good deeds by saying, “Your bedroom and bathroom smell so bad, I can hardly stand to be in here.”
By 1:15 this morning, I was all better. I kid you not. It wasn’t even two full hours of Plague Suffering. The bathroom had been scrubbed down and smelled of Clorox. My bedroom was infused with a wonderful smell of lemon and peppermint oils, and I was ready to sleep.
I felt so much better.
Which is when I think I might have hollered out to Hubs, as he was STILL fighting the toddler who refused to go back to bed himself, “I’m in here! I’m recovered now! All is well! I’m going back to sleep! The place smells like lemon and peppermint and bleach! You stay with the helpless baby, though!”
It was obviously a very short-lived version of Ebola, but let me tell you this: Homemade enchiladas are more than likely dead to me for the remainder of my life. Oh, yes. The wheels have fallen off of THAT bus.
And Hubs? Well, I think Thing 2 actually fell asleep again at 3:30 this morning.
Which is why that helpless baby and the leftover enchiladas are going to be left in a pretty wicker basket on the front steps of the convent, for the nuns to find.
(Except I know that the grandmas will steal him back before the nuns even get a chance to open their front door, so don’t worry your little heads and start dialing DFS quite yet.)
Happy Tuesday, y’all.