There will be vomit.

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Stomach bug, stomach bug. LICE. LICE. Stomach bug.

I wish it were the beginning of some amazing Haiku, at the end of which I win a billion dollars, but really it refers to the last six days. Somewhere in there I had a dream about a man-eating shark. Foreshadowing?

I don’t tell you my woes of puke and communicable disease because I think they are even close to a big deal, but because doing so keeps me from the kind of silly, silly self-pity that I must aggressively avoid. After all, a little vomit never hurt anybody. It brutalizes off-white carpeting though.  

Midnight (or 2 a.m., I really have no idea)

  • I hear vomit sounds and commotion.
  • I pretend this isn’t happening for longer than I should.
  • I am so tired from the previous 48 hours of delousing and laundry that I fall asleep.

6 a.m. (I know this to be accurate because I was so pissed to be awake)

  • I hear moaning.
  • I go to my baby (who is actually 8).
  • She is topless and out of sorts.
  • I smell puke. I see bedding in disarray.
  • There is some dry heaving.
  • We get to the bathroom. And nothing.

As Saturday begins, I know in my heart of hearts that the wreckage to the carpet might be catastrophic. I also know that there is no way we are getting a new one before these people who vomit on floors head off to college, the Peace Corps or early, ill-fated marriages. 

Kids are messy. They get LICE, puke, don’t flush toilets and far too many of them are confounded as to the difference between a garbage receptacle and a living room floor.

It is often difficult for me not to sweat this stuff. It is small, and so are these girls. They won’t always be. I know this, yet knowing it doesn’t always keep me from becoming curiously unhinged.

In no time at all the puker rallies like only a small puker can. Though sleep deprived and most likely dehydrated, she wants to go to the park. Any park. 

It smells like puke in here.