So, there has been a lot of puking at my house lately. And, much as I've tried to avoid contamination, I'm the mom...every episode involving excess body fluids also involved them getting on me.
Yeah. This has been not so much my favorite week ever.
And, it seemed since everyone else got sick I was doomed. I mean, how could I not? Hubs got sick, and he, although super helpful and wonderful in almost all other ways, is not always helpful when it comes to cleaning vomit. He comforts the vomit-ee, plunks them in the bathtub, whatever. But generally (and there was at least one memorable exception this weekend) he doesn't get his hands dirty. I do. So how could I possibly avoid this plague?
I don't know. But I seem to have basically avoided the blasted virus. I feel nauseas, almost as if I were pregnant, which is not physically possible at this juncture, but other than that...nothing.
I'm not disappointed. Vomiting is one of my least favorite things. Really. Really. REALLY. But still...it is a strange feeling of let down to be deprived of something you've been anticipating. Even dreading.
What's the moral here? Is there a writing-related moral? (probably) A life related moral? (don't eat chocolate all day assuming the tummy bug will purge you of your sin, perhaps?) Yup. Morals abound. But, I'm going to let you ponder them and go curl up with my nook and a romance novel. Which, come to think of it, was probably what I'd been anticipating anyway.