Da' Bug

We've had a rough couple of days. It all started on Sunday morning in the middle of the kitchen. There we were, having a little Norman Rockwell kind of morning, stirring up the ingredients for some baked oatmeal with peaches. The boys were taking turns pouring things in -- one does the milk, one does the oatmeal, one does the sugar, they both crack eggs...you get the idea. We're all in our PJ's and I'm sporting some great bed-head when Landis turns around on the chair that he's standing on and says "Mommy, my tummy hurts." I figure he's probably got that nauseous feeling that occurrs sometimes when you don't get breakfast in soon enough, but no...... After he makes the announcement, he proceedes to throw up on the floor. Ugggghhhhhhhhhh! I feel so bad for him (I feel so bad for me too, but for different reasons) and as soon as we can ascertain that he is done throwing up, I tell him to go lie down while I clean up the mess in the kitchen. He gets as far as our bedroom and pukes all over the floor again -- at least 3 times. So, here we go....

I start scrubbing. I start at one end of the house and I'm not stopping. I'm channeling my baseboard-scrubbing, ceiling bleaching, white-tornado of a grandma, and for 2 solid days I clean while Landis barfs -- everywhere. He barfs in our bed, he barfs on the couch, he barfs in our bed again, he barfs on the other end of the couch, he barfs on the floor, he barfs in our bed, and finally -- yes, Thank the Lord, FINALLY -- he barfs in the toilet. (To date, our couch and our bed sheets have never been as clean as they are today. Well, maybe when they were brand new....) And while one child is throwing up, the other is giving a constant play-by-play. Gibson is pretty sure that it's his job to keep me up to date on all the details: Where, when, how much. Like somehow I don't already know.

Finally, on Tuesday morning (that would be day number 3 of barfing, in case you weren't keeping track) we make an appointment to see the doctor. I mean, I'm a fairly laid back mom, but I wasn't sure how many days he should be allowed to throw up before I was supposed to start getting concerned about it. The doctor assures us that he's fine. No fever, lots of energy, no complicated symptoms. Just your typical barf-bug working it's way through his system. "The reason he's probably throwing up so much" says the doctor "is that he's over-stimulated that muscle in his tummy that works to keep food down. He needs a little Zantac to settle things down in there. The bug will probably work it's way through his system, so if you see in blood in his stool, or if it smells like something died, call us because that could be salmonella. But he seems fine, and with no fever I'm sure it's just a bug." So we leave with a prescription in hand for Zantac, which for some reason cracks me up. My 3 year old needs Zantac. Does anyone else find that to be humorous, or have I just been breathing cleaning fumes too long?

We make it through the rest of Tuesday with no additional barfing. The mop, scrub-brush, and bucket are all put away. Toilets, floors, baseboards, walls, doors, windows -- all gleaming. The couch and the bed are cleaner than they've been in years. I know I've erradicated that bug and I'm exausted. That night (since I have to open the Y at 4:45am the next morning) I go to bed early, and as usual I am awoken at midnight by a small child standing next to me in the dark. I bolt upright. "Are you going to barf?" I ask. (Clearly, I'm a little gun-shy.) "No." he says. "I just want to sleep with you." This is fine by me since I will do anything to get a good night's sleep -- especially when I have to get up at 4:00am, which comes way earlier than it feels like it should. Still, I pry my exhausted body up off the sheets and stumble into the bathroom to wet down my bed-head. It occurrs to me, faintly, that for a room that is as clean as it is, it doesn't have the best smell. But it's 4:00 am and my brain is not firing on all it's cylinders yet. As I am drying my hair, the door to the bathroom opens. There stands Landis. "What are you doing?" I ask. "I want to get up." he says. "No. It's WAY too early. You need to be in bed." I say. "Either go get in your own bed, or climb back in with daddy." "No." he tells me. "I want to go with you." I'm getting a little frustrated with him because when I have to get up at 4:00 I don't really leave myself any extra time to stand and have a debate with a 3 year old. I scoop him up and place him on my hip, wrapping my hand around his bottom to support him. My intent is to carry him back to the bed. Instead, all of my senses come together to make a connection in my brain -- The slight stench in the air, the wet feeling on my hand, it's all coming from him. The bug. We're done with the barfing -- it's onward to diarrhea. Ugggggghhhhhhhhhh! Really?!?! At 4:00am?!?! I put Landis down and strip him of his clothes. I run the bath and tell him to get in. Then I kick the bathroom door open and say to Mike: "Get out of the bed. There's poop in it." Mike groans and rolls over, though it doesn't actually look like he's getting up. Oh well. If he wants to lie in it, it's his business. I have bigger things to tend to at the moment. I wash my hands, I wash his butt, I change my clothes. I open the bathroom door again. Turns out that Mike did actually get up. He'd stripped the bed for yet another round of double-washing, and then made his way out to the couch to go back to sleep. I get Landis re-dressed, re-tucked into bed, and make a mad dash out the door yelling over my shoulder to my already-back-asleep husband that Landis should eat nothing but toast or saltines for breakfast. And as I'm speeding down the street, trying desperately to get to the Y before those maniacal people eager to work out at 5:00am, I wonder to myself "Will there ever be a time when my life doesn't revolve around bodily functions? Ever?"

Please.......Someone? Anyone? Tell me some good news.