Poo-pocolyspe 2011 continued into February. If the past few weeks are any indication of how this year is going to be, then it's going to be quite crappy indeed. And we're going to need a lot of Lysol. A pox called the stomach virus has been on our house. And it just wouldn't leave. By Tuesday, we had to put the kids on a liquid diet, or as I clearly see it now, a junk food diet.
Honestly, what kind of nurse tells a mom to give her 2 and 4 year old nothing but water, Gatorade, Jell-O and Popsicles for 24 hours? We didn't even have any of this stuff in the house. Except, of course, the water.
We didn't make it 24 hours. By 9 a.m. Wednesday morning, I had a mini-Chernobyl on my hands and a 4 year old writhing on the kitchen floor screaming for crackers. I'll be speaking to my doctor next week when we see him about his nurse's advice.
And for those who may not have seen this video on Facebook, here's a snapshot of what my kids did one morning while I put the baby down for a nap ...
|The great pasta massacre of 2011|
And Owie, dear sweet Owie. Teething. Clinging. Crying. We're trying to get him to sleep through the night. And I feel supremely guilty that my poor third child hardly has any dedicated blog posts with which to build his baby book. Sigh.
Are you gonna give up crying for Lent, Owie? Jim asks. Well, he's already given up sleep and it's not even Lent yet.
How 'bout you, Fiona? Wanna give up diapers for Lent? She fell off the potty wagon when the stomach virus struck.
More pasta on the floor, Fiona says. We keep finding the remnants from last week's pasta massacre.
Do you have a brain? Danny asks me.
Um, yes. At least I think so. I'm not so sure anymore.
It's next to your ears?
Between my ears.
You use it to think about stuff. Like Marbles. Yes, like marbles and how I'm losing mine.
Ugh! More pasta on the floor, I told Jim.
That's okay. It'll absorb all the water they spill on the floor.
Can you talk about something else? I ask after listening to the Moe's and Marbles conversation for a half hour straight.
Hey Fiona, you want to talk about rockets? Of course, she does, dear. All women love talking about rockets.
Hey, look, I found more pasta on the floor, mom, Danny squeals. I know, son, I know.
Hey mom, can I mop the floor? Why not? He's responsible for most of what's on it. I set him up with the mop and he went to town.
Five minutes later ...
Here, you can finish up. It's your turn. Gee, thanks.
Where are you going?
To the doctor's.
To get checked out.
Oh, you're sick. [pause] You're old.
And you made me that way, kid.