puke. in may. for crying out loud.

I hate puke. There, I said it.

Seriously though. On Friday I was in the living room with the kids and a couple of their friends. Suddenly Mitchie got this funny look on his face and yelled "Mommy I'm gonna puke!" and he did. All over the floor and into a rubbermaid tote I managed to grab as the throw up started spraying. I kind of chalked it up to him playing for hours out in the cold and then coming in and chugging a glass of milk. But then the night came, and we tucked the kids all into bed only to be up a dozen times with him as he continued to throw up.

On Saturday we decided to go ahead with Tennyson's birthday party anyway. (Happy 5th Birthday Tennyson!). Mitchie had eaten two bowls of cereal and milk and had successfully kept it down. The birthday party happened. Everything seemed to be okay, even though Mitchie spent part of it camped out on the couch with his blankie.

Saturday night brought another all-nighter with Mitchell being sick again.

Sunday, not bad. Sunday night we all slept. It was bliss. On Monday morning he got up and ate breakfast and we tentatively went to diaper gym. After all, it had been more than 24 hours since the last round. Shortly in to DG he started to look really tired and white. He curled up on my lap and began emitting noxious gasses that could be smelled by everyone at the table. We went home. The diarrhea started. First in his pants as he slept. That was awesome. He spent the better part of the day running back and forth.

Of course it only made sense to go ahead with the family birthday party on Monday evening. The highlight was when Mitchell pooped his pants on the deck, and it ended up, well, on the deck.

Last night he seemed a lot better. We tucked the kids in and hoped we were over it. At ten o'clock Steven went in to kiss the boys goodnight one last time. He kneeled beside Mitchell's bed, and into something wet. He flipped on the light. It couldn't have been Mitchell. It spanned from beside the bed to almost the opposite wall.

The boys were sleeping. Tennyson must have just leaned over the edge of his top bunk and yakked his cookies all over the floor before rolling over and falling back asleep.

I'm so over it.

I have this thing where I'm all sweet and sad for the first kid. That poor pale baby who is so sick, and so hungry, and so pale and tired. We slowly nurse that kid back to health.

Four days later when the next kid starts I'm just annoyed.

Especially when he throws up for the third time and he's in the living room and sitting right next to his bucket, but he couldn't right the bucket to throw up in it because he doesn't want to set down his drink. The drink that conveniently has a lid and straw on it. The drink he couldn't have set on the table right next to where he was sitting. Nope. It makes way more sense to just unload his stomach onto the carpet.

Sigh.

The worst is that there's no way I'm not going to get it. I really should indulge in a bunch of treats and cake today. They're not going to stick anyway.

Wish me luck with the current round of Verwey grossness.

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