So here I am, navigating my day fairly well, I think. We made it through the night without further barfage. Monkey felt better today and wanted to go to school for his BIG! HOLIDAY! PIZZA! PARTY! so I got Chickadee settled on the couch with her trusty bucket and ran around getting teachers’ gifts ready (which I’d started last night, but was eventually abandoned in favor of vomit patrol) and readying him for school.
I warmed up the car, packed up our things, and got Chickadee to put on some sweats under her nightgown, and then boots and a jacket on top. We got Monkey to school, whereupon I had one of those lightbulb moments about my sheer stupidity. (“Yeah, he really wanted to come in for the pizza… and I’m looking forward to cleaning up pizza puke later, so load him up!”)
But ya know, I was maybe being too pessimistic. It’s entirely possible he won’t start hurling until tomorrow night, and tomorrow night? The kids will be with their dad. Tralala!
Anyway, we came back home and I built my daughter a veritable cocoon on the couch. Bucket, remote, glass of ginger ale, and an offering from the BRAT diet on a handy tray all readily available. (You know the BRAT diet, right? Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast? Or–if Chickadee had her way–Btoast, Rtoast, Atoast, and most importantly, don’t forget the TOAST.)
So we’ve been getting through the day alright. I am realizing how the last week or so has me stretched pretty thin in terms of endurance, and when Chickadee fell asleep during Monsters, Inc., I stretched out on the other couch and had a snooze, myself.
We were awakened by the doorbell. The culprit was a cheerful older man bearing a HUGE floral arrangement. “You must have the wrong house!” I exclaimed, as I opened the door.
Guess what?
He did. And he apologized profusely while I tried very hard not to laugh.
Not–mind you–that I need flowers. But that just seemed cruel and unusual, or at the least, payback for some heinous behavior in a previous life.
Of course, I don’t eat babies anymore. I’ve softened. Now I just tell them to stop whining and stop lying about stomach aches and OOPS, guess you weren’t lying, keep your damn head in the bucket. Stay tuned for my inevitable Nobel nomination.
I’ve been sick for almost every Christmas I can think of except this one (jinxed!), so I totally feel Chicakdee’s pain. Poor thing.
And the flowers? That’s just cruel. Understandably a mistake, but still cruel. You deserve a Nobel for that alone.
Okay if our positions were reversed? That dude would have lost the flowers and left my house carrying a bucket. And maybe some toast.
You deserve a break, Mir! I think there’s still time to go sit in Santa’s lap and ask him for one. His elves can make anything, I hear.
Mim,
Tell the truth. Didn’t it pass through your mind that you could have just squealed with glee, announced that you had been expecting this bouquet, tipped the kindly gentleman a buck, and kept the flowers.
This week, it’s the least you deserve.
And before I forget, please extend my appreciation for all the good wishes and kind thoughts from your bloggers-in-arms. I feel like I know them.
Here’s hoping that 2005 brings you a job (making eleventy million dollars – cause working will cause you not to be able to be quite so vigilant on those Target markdowns); less barfage; more good men (or ANY would be nice); and less suckage in general. Because, from reading your blog, you deserve it more than anybody I can think of.
Barf is just the kids way of telling you they really are sick. Really, how else would we know, right?
Just so you know, this is coming from someone who had a daughter throw up in a very public place (the mall) TWICE!!
I’m a slow learner. And the sympathy gagging is awful! I totally sympathize.
Okay, the stomach thing is TOTALLY going around then, because I know two people who have it as of today. Being sick for the holidays is no fun. I hope they get better soon! (But then again, do I hope they stay a little sick for tomorrow? It’s such a dilemma.)
aw man, the sheer cruelty of the flower delivery is too much to bear! what a nasty dose of christmas irony.
It’s that little gaggy sound right before the actual spew that sets me off. And from now on I’ll recommend both you AND Michele to my son. He’s a deal at twice the price, I promise. If you like redheads. And tatoos. I’ve often wondered why kids are so often sick at Christmas. I’ve suspected a virus spread by constant listening to the Chipmunks for a long time. I think it’s “Meeee, I want a hooooola-hoop” that triggers it. Well, it makes ME gag, anyway. . . .
Sorry about the barfs and the flowers being mis delivered.
Sorta sums up the year.
*hugs*
I’m dreaming of a puke-free Christmas for you. And I am putting you up for the Pulitzer as well. The MOMMY Pulitzer. SO there.