The Mom Can’t Get Sick…The Mom Can’t Get Sick…The Mom Can’t Get Sick

rottenecard weight loss stomach flu

You know you’ve thought about it…

Well, I was hoping to post about something really cheery today, like wine. And rainbows. And drinking wine while watching rainbows. Instead, I’m going to outline the last three days under our roof, as the shit has hit the fan in the most literal sense.


10 PM — I’m nearly finished reading Gone Girl when I hear the little dude crying in his room. Not now, little dude, Mama’s nearly done with the first book she’s read since Twilight.

10:01 PM — More crying. More ignoring.

10:10 PM — More crying. Must go explore what’s wrong even though I’m really caught up in this book. Damn you, little dude! I open the door, and the smell hits me before I even hit the light switch. P to the U to the KE. Is there a more distinct smell than puke? I mean, you’d think everyone’s vomit would smell different since we all eat different things, but ever since that first pile covered in wood chips that I smelled in Kindergarten to this very moment — it’s all smelled exactly the same. And that puke covered his crib like a fucking boss. It was an episode of CSI: Toddler Bedroom. Hubs grabs the sheets while I change the little dude.

10:28 — Little dude is in bed with us. He proceeds to puke every 18 minutes on the nose until 4 AM when, mercifully, he sleeps.

10:45 — It’s a zillion degrees in our Queen-sized bed with a little pukey dude, the hubs, and two stinky pugs. I go and get our floor mattress and hunker down for an evening of falling asleep just about the time when I have to rush little dude to the sink. It’s like a lesson in sleep torture.


6:00 AM — Little dude is awake. How can it be? You slept as much (or, rather, as little) as me!? Sleep, my pretty. Sleep. But nope, he’s up and wants to watch the telly.

7:00 AM — Little dude announces he did poopy. But it’s diarrhea, which keeps up at a steady pace for the next two days. Like every two minutes. I’m not fucking kidding. Note to self — take out a loan for diapers. Or at least invest in Huggies. Something good has got to come of this.

12 PM — The cavalry arrives — aka, my parents. Hurray! I have to go to the doctor for an appointment I’d previously scheduled, and it may as well be a spa visit for how excited I am to get the fuck outta there. I sneak in a visit to Kohl’s, as even shitty clothes shopping is better than returning to the Isle of Doom.

2 PM — I return home, and my parents leave with older dude, hoping to spare him the same agony — it doesn’t work. More on that later. I’ve begun to feel sorry for myself, which includes eating about a dozen of the chocolate chip cookies my mom brought with her. I rationalize that it’s likely to come up later anyway.

3 PM   — I throw some food in the crockpot, as the crockpot is my magic lazy cooker. You just throw in a bunch of ingredients and five hours later, din din is ready. Again, I tell myself that it doesn’t matter if it even tastes good, as it’s likely no one will be eating by then. By now, I’ve got a terrible cold, which I can imagine is lowering my resistance to this fucking stomach bug like tenfold. Damn you, cold! And screw you, recurring pink eye! I Google “affordable vacations,” knowing that anything affordable is going to suck anyway.

4 PM — I pour myself a glass of wine. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I hop into bed next to little dude so we can watch Rio for like the hundredth time. Hundred thousandth. I now hate birds and Brazil because we’ve watched this fucking movie so much. I play Words With Friends as little dude’s stomach can be heard rumbling its contents into his diaper about every five minutes. Enough with the diarrhea already. It’s kind of nice that he’s so calm though. In a weird way, it’s kind of relaxing.

6 PM — Scratch that relaxing shit. Someone poked the bear — the ornery two-year-old bear with the stomach flu! And he’s mad…really, really mad. “I want chocolate!!!!!!!!!!!” There aren’t enough exclamation points to express how grumpy he has become. And he can be pretty grumpy on a healthy day, so do the stomach flu math. The only thing he can have is Pedialyte, and he repeatedly says, “I don’t yike it,” which comes out sounding British. Normally, it might be cute, but not tonight, you little limey bastard.

8 PM — The three of us are exhausted and ready for bed. We steel ourselves for another night of no sleep.


7 AM — We all slept! This might not be so bad after all. I take stock of how I feel. The cold is still bad, and the stomach has been continually rumbling, but I’m fighting the good fight. You know — the one where the mom knows she can’t get sick as everything will go to shit and fast.

8 AM — I check in with the parents and big dude is throwing up. I can hear him screaming “Mama” in the background, which is both so sad and yet completely frightening at the same time. So much for that initial sunny outlook. And the little dude has diarrhea yet again, so his buns are now raw. Poor, grumpy little bear.

12 PM — Little dude has mounted an official protest against Pedialyte, so I let him have a Gatorade, which he promptly throws up on my feet. Having been bathed in diarrhea and puke for two days, I’ve now resigned myself to getting this. Must go eat more cookies.

3 PM — The parents drop off Big Dude, who looks like a skeleton with blue lips even though Halloween is over. It’s utterly and completely sad. He asks for Madagascar and tries to fall asleep on the couch, only to wake up every five minutes screaming in agony about his tummy pains. I start thinking about wine. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? Oh yeah, I already asked that.

6 PM — The bear is back! This must be his witching hour. He is even grumpier than yesterday, which I thought would be an impossibility. He’s taken to walking around the house, crying and screaming “I don’t yike it,” even though I have no idea what “it” is. If I did, I’d promptly kick “it” right out of the fucking house and tell it never to return.

8 PM — The house is quiet and both boys are in bed, and the hubs and I have wine in hand. We treated that stomach bug like a little bitch! I’m sure all will be well tomorrow.


6 AM — So much for that whole “all is well” thing. I roll over and the hubs looks like Tom Hanks in the last scene in Philadelphia. No, no, no. This can’t be! And yet I’ve known all along this is how it would go. And then there would be one lone soldier, waiting, waiting, waiting, as she listens to her husband throw up with the force of water coming out of a whale’s blowhole. For reals.

My hands are bloody from washing them and, instead of cleaning my house, I wish I could blow it and all its germs to smithereens.

To Be Cont…or hopefully not…




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    This is effing hilarious but as I laugh I so totally feel for you! Same sitch recently but it was my 81 year old daddio. Hoping I can fight it. It’s been a whole week so hopefully I got past it! Hang in there girl.

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