Better, I Think, She Says Suspiciously
November 20, 2013
Hello! Hi! We're all fine, thank you. Feeling much better, yes. Look at me, not talking about barfing.
(I am maybe a little bit talking about barfing.)
The latest round of pestilence was swift and mighty, yet mercifully brief. I took a nap in the afternoon and woke up to find that Ezra had raided the pantry in a post-viral snack attack and had put together a disgusting, non-BRAT-diet approved buffet of just about everything that didn't require a can opener. Noah took a little longer to recover, but still took one sad look at the bowl of white rice I made him for dinner and requested a pizza instead.
Ike, on the other hand, went down for his nap around 2 p.m. and stayed soundly asleep until 7 a.m. this morning. I officially think he's part hibernating bear. Today he likewise seems just fine, other than the fact that he's been eating lunch now for two and a half solid hours.
SEND GROCERIES, INTERNET.
I still haven't committed to actually tucking anyone's sheets around the mattress corners, though. Or removed the strategically-placed plastic wastebaskets from their rooms. That feels like an invitation for a second wave, if you ask me.
There are two Worst Parts about a baby or toddler with a stomach virus, by the way. One, they don't know what's happening to them. Or that it's going to happen again, and again, and it would really help you out a lot if they gave you some warning or stuck their head over the crib railing or...or did ANYTHING other than sit there and throw up on themselves.
The second Worst Part is...well, they don't know what's happening to them. Or why it keeps happening again and again. Or if it's ever going to stop happening. For all they know, this is Life Now. This is How It Is. Maybe from now on, forever. You try to sleep and then something massively unpleasant happens and you cry and Mom or Dad come in and seem kind of annoyed but creeply nonchalant about it, like when they're confronted with a particularly messy diaper or that time they caught you pulling 200 plastic sandwich bags out of the box one by one. Is this normal to them? Is this no big deal? Because this feels like a pretty big deal, especially since they took your Elmo away because the unpleasantness got all over him. Oh God, Elmo! Where are you? Where did they take you? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO MEEEEE.
On the plus side, toddlers have the memory of a goldfish. Elmo's still down in the laundry room and Ike's been talking about nothing but Cookie Monster ever since.