So, you would think with the last 10 days off, I could have found time to blog, at least more than a clip from a movie. But first there was Christmas shopping (always last minute), then the actual event (very fun, but utterly exhausting), then the visiting with family from far and wide, then the "other" Christmas with the family that couldn't make it to the first Christmas, and finally, during and immediately following the second Christmas, THE STOMACH FLU.
On the other hand, all of this insanity gives me a lot to write about. I tried to choose: fun stories of family dysfunction or tales of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea (which, by the way, my two year old finds hysterically funny)? Extensive lists of food consumed or detailed descriptions of what it looks like on its way back up? So, I've decided to just write a jumbled mess, thus reproducing in the written word the very chaos I experienced. Stick with me; this could be rough.
The first item: a rant against Santa. Since when does the jolly red fellow bring more than one toy per child? He was nice enough to only bring one to our house, but apparently he visited my in laws and left such a load there that I had to INSIST that we leave 80% of it there (that'll teach him). In the last five days, I have watched my children devolve from relatively normal, albeit temperamental, little tikes into greedy, grabbing materialists of the worst variety. That's not to say I don't appreciate Santa's generosity, but on top of the wonderful gifts from family and friends, HE REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE. I know I sound like a Grinch. Maybe I am. But seriously, people, you should see my house. And as everybody could predict (because it happens every year), they find the boxes much more entertaining than the gifts themselves.
But the visit with my side of the family was nice. New babies, new stories, new but familiar faces. Always welcome. Except the stomach flu they brought with them...
I seriously won't get into too many details except one. My four year old does not have any memories of throwing up and doesn't really know how to do it. He puked a trail of debbi dogs (I can give you the recipe later) that began on his Lightning McQueen sheets, across his (formerly) cream-colored rug, all over the wood floors leading into the bathroom and finally ended on the white bath mat but could not bring himself to do it in the toilet because he was afraid the toilet water would splash him in the face. Coming upon this scene out of a dead sleep, I, feverish and already nauseous, tried to aim his poor little head over the toilet but, in so doing, stepped in the slightly warm and noxious goo of the above-mentioned debbi dogs, which, in turn, led to my own (immediate and violent) upheaval, a perfectly aimed arc of beer and Christmas cookies, overshooting the head of my little sick cherub, landing perfectly (and splashingly, much to his horror) in the pristine coolness of white ceramic toilet. I won't bore you with the other details -- the hosing off of bedding in the backyard, the endless night and following day. But here we stand, alive and stronger for it.
A special shout-out to Bev and her husband for going shopping for us -- the laundry detergent, popsicles, and 7-up were like manna from heaven. Thank you.