Overheard

So we're on day seven of the stomach bug from hell. This morning, I thought it was over. No symptoms for the past 24 hours. I was exhorting Danny to get up (I hate the thought of having to do this for the next 15 years). He told me he was sick.

Oh, you're sick. What's wrong? 
I can't walk. 
Now that's just silly, I said, teasing him.

He laughed and got up.

He came down for breakfast and puked all over the bench. Sigh. No preschool. Plans for coffee with a friend at a kid-friendly coffee house canceled. Poor Danny back on the couch.

Everyone but the baby has had this. Actually, the baby almost had a literal stomach bug. He picked up a small bug in the bathroom and put it in his mouth the other day.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

If I could see the bug's facial expression, I'm sure it would have looked something like Owen's look of utter shock and horror.

It's also Week 1 of Fiona's terrible twos. On Day 1, she had her first crying No fit. Up until now, she'd only say or scream no. Now we have tears and repetition and hand gestures.

Lovely.

Ten minutes later, she was dancing like Elaine Benes in our kitchen while we listened to my Atomic Dog station on Pandora. It's going to be a long, schizophrenic year here with little miss ...

Nona. This is how Fiona says her name. It's beyond adorable.


No, I don't like it, Fiona says, mostly about clothes, food, books and toys. Well, at least she's direct.


I like it, Fiona tells me, waving a cleaning brush at me.
You like what?
CLEANING! Excellent!


Hate the book, she now says every chance she gets. She brought me a book one night that I was so sick of. I muttered, "Oh, I hate that book."


I hate him, she says after her brother Owen visited her patch of the playroom. You know, I always suspected.



I don't hear you, mom, Danny tells me as I'm surfing Amazon one afternoon.
I'm not talking, dear. Actually, I'm taking a vow of silence.


Let's have a conversation, Fi. 


We're going to Moe's and to Marbles, he tells her.
YEAH, she says, clearly thrilled to be having a conversation with her brother.
But not today.
Yeah. Not today.
They have this same exact conversation about ten times a day now. My head hurts. Bad.


Say thank you to me, Fi, Danny tells her after he's given her something.
Thank you to me.
No, say thank you to me.
Thank you to me.
NO, You say THANK YOU TO ME. 
Thank you to me.
UH, MO-OM. 
Not now son, I'm busy laughing ass off.

What are you doing? I ask Danny who is at the top of the stairs brushing his teeth 10 minutes after bedtime.
I've got to brush all of them. They're all going to fall out. 
I sat on the stairs and laughed hysterically for at least 2 minutes. It had been a really long day.


Your baby popped out of your belly button? Danny asks one day over lunch.
Um, sure. 
Oh, that would really hurt. Wait till he finds out how babies really come out. I'll get a band aid to fix it, he decides. Now, why didn't I think of that?


Someone. Help. Danny called from his room several times Saturday night. The stomach virus had spread.

I feel the need to warn you that this one is just gross ...

It's all water. I've got to put it in a pan and stir it back up till it turns into poop. 

And a few days later, when Daddy got the stomach virus ...

When I feel sick in the middle of the night and yell, 'Someone. Help.' Will you come help me? Jim asks Danny.
You can have my bucket, he offers. I don't need it anymore.  How sweet.

Here's hoping we won't need any buckets next week.