Someday, if you find yourself tasked writing the inevitable "Top 27 Moments That Signaled the Death of Mommyblogging" listicle for BuzzFaceTwitBook, I would be greatly humbled if you considered this moment, November 19, 2013, When Amalah Finally Ran Out Of Original Ways To Talk About How Everybody In Her House Has A Stomach Virus For The 8th Or 9th Year In A Row.
Ezra got it first, over the weekend. Seemed better. I started fantasizing of an alternate reality where no one else would get it, in time gone by, when life was kind and handwashing up to the elbows 20 times a day had meaning. Then Ezra got sick again last night around bedtime and Ike quickly followed, over and over and over, and then Noah burst out of his room in a frantic dash to the bathroom at the exact second it was dawning on me that I wasn't feeling so hot either.
(Jason, as of this writing, is still standing. And he deserves all the hookers and blow for his service last night, as the only person capable of handling the non-stop cycle of sheet changes, cleaning, wipedowns and comforting of disgusting little people.)
Today, Jason left for work but will hopefully be able to come home early and get more than a 20-minute stretch of sleep. I am writing this from bed and trying not to think about all the crusty crib sheets, towels and stuffed animals I have to wash. The boys are all gonna watch themselves a buttload of TV and that's about it. Maybe we'll all treat ourselves to some celebratory sips of water in a couple hours.
So we'll survive, obviously. It's good to have a plan.