Whassup

Well, it’s been an embarrassingly long time since I even READ another blog, much less attempted to write one. I considered giving up altogether, but it didn’t seem right to just skulk away. So here I am.

Not surprisingly to anyone who knows us, there’s been some vomit. So much vomit. So many people. So ridiculous that it doesn’t even bear retelling. It wouldn’t seem real. You wouldn’t believe. It all started with the youngest and some special houseguests. The houseguests had never been in my house before. In fact, no one but my in-laws and crazy Cousin Chuck have ever stayed in the farmhouse. People think we’re haunted.

Now I know why.

Our friends got into town from the West at around 11 p.m. eastern time. Their kids were shot. We got everyone settled down and then said good night and figured we’d all catch up in the morning. At 1:15 a.m., not even 2 hours after their arrival, my youngest shows up crying by the side of my bed. By this point in my life, this scene should cause my blood to run cold, but somehow it didn’t. I thought it was a bad dream, or a need for water, or an innocuous request for a hug.

“I just threw up in my bed,” she said, instead. Not a hug. Just a big ole vomit 2 feet from the poor little child sleeping on her floor.

In that moment, my past life flashed before my eyes and my future weekend did also. I just knew the next four days were going to be nightmarish and grisly. I was already looking around for the emotional scar cream. But then…move on, woman, your kid is standing here covered in throw-up.

So, 1 hour, a load of laundry, a new set of pajamas, a large McDonalds cup, a can of Lysol, 2 paper plates (think backhoe, people) and a whole lot of praying and gagging later…I was ready to lay back down for the night.

Hmm, though. Hmm. Now there’s a conundrum. Where should I lay down? Typhoid Mary was flat-out in my spot. Her spot upstairs was DE-FILED. The guest room was filled to 4x its capacity. Plus, I needed to be the cup holder for Typhoid Mary. I couldn’t exactly escape to the couch.

My bedroom is about the size of some people’s walk-in closet. No joke. The queen sized bed IS the whole room, with a narrow walking path all the way around it. Until 3 a.m., I sat on the floor on a throw pillow and did the whole cup-holding, chin-wiping routine. Then, when I thought I’d pass out from deep vein thrombosis, I climbed up onto my bed and curled into fetal position against a footboard I now cursed. This is where you’d sleep if you were a hairball coughing, mangy cat. I am almost 5’9″. This wasn’t working for me. I got kicked in the head at least twice.

I was never more grateful to hear an alarm go off before 6 a.m. That was one of the longer nights of my life. There have been 2 others in the last week, but I feel a certain confidence that this round is over.

I don’t know why people don’t want to stay with us.