Last year, the sick came through. It came through in waves, over the course of three days. It washed over each of us in succession. Friday, babywhumpus. Saturday-Sunday, daddywhumpus, Monday, moi. This year, it was precisely the same. Friday, babywhumpus. Saturday-Sunday, daddywhumpus, Monday, moi.
Last year, it ended on daddywhumpus's birthday, with me sick (and crying) on the couch. Sexy. This after I had been the only one well enough to dig the house and car out of a snowstorm that shut the city down. This year, it started with babywhumpus hurling up pasta and broccoli on me. Chunky. Over my shoulder, into my hair, down onto my lap. Then on the couch and the fake fur star blanket and pillow. Finally, and repeatedly, into an empty (large) yogurt container. Glamour.
In the middle of the following night, babywhumpus came tramping into our room and told me, "Daddy is going to be sick." This means that there will soon be underwater screaming coming from the bathroom. I have never heard anything like it. I don't think there is anything like it. Me? I could barf and go back to bed and no one would know the difference. Him? I am surprised the neighborhood howly dogs don't start wailing up a storm.
Why am I telling you this? Because I am waiting for a Madonna interview video to load, I promised myself that I would try to write something every day, and the things I have in the queue are continuing in the rather depressing, cynical vein.
I wanted to break it up with some cheery vomit stories.
The pasta vomit was rather orange.