Another One Barfs the Dust

Oh my lands people.  Those of you that are contemplating having children, or adding another to your brood: I am petitioning you to think on this:

The stomach bug holds no hostages.

I joke, I joke, as I wield a can of Lysol in my right hand like a mouse grips a piece of cheddar cheese, like Frodo Baggins with a (the) ring, like Tammy Faye and a wand from a tube of Mary Kay mascara; and in my left a lemon-scented Glad trash bag, roll of paper towels, pack of Ramen noodles and a plastic bottle of Gatorade: the stomach bug is sent straight from the devil himself, y’all.  It is.

To update those of y’all that care (and those of y’all that don’t, keep reading, it’s good for you), we’re still living with the in-laws (mostly because they are still letting us- and I’ll blog on my roommates when we move out so that they don’t kick us out prematurely) and chugging along on this train called life.  We know more about insurance claims than we care, know how to prepare meals for a party of seven on any given night, and understand what commune living feels like minus drinking the Kool Aide.  Sort of.  We’re soldiers, y’all.  And more of the Gatorade drinking type at this point.

War has been declared upon the Parrish compound these past two weeks.

The hubs has been riding the struggle bus these past two as a member of the pneumonia club and two of the kids have been selling Buicks for the latter and then beginning of said weeks.  And den…

Dun dun dun….another one bites the dust. Hey hey.  The third of the Parrish trio fell down hard tonight with the virus created by the most evil one. And I, the mama, am barely hanging on.  I’ve been spraying (Lysol) and praying that I don’t fall victim to it…in fact, in my wisdom, even had a glass of wine in an attempt to kill any germs that may try to invade.  (That’s what alcohol does, right?)

You know you are a parent of a stomach sick child when you eat your own dinner and contemplate how it may taste coming back up.  And then actually weigh the option of eating said meal to decide if you really want to forfeit said food for the next few months of life as you get over the taste of it as upchuck in your mouth.  You’ve done this if you are a parent and enjoy food, much as I do…

You also know you are a parent of a tummy ill child if you remove every soft surface away from the child during the dark hours.  Like child, you may sleep on this plastic covered surface with maybe one wet rag and no other items touching you except maybe, maybe the plastic handles of the lemon scented glad bag next to your face because NO ONE (not even the very mother that gave birth to you from her guts) wants to have to clean puke off of every facing of material that might surround the projectile path of vom in the middle of the night.  Just no one.  Not even the dog, who licks his own fanny.  It’s not natural, and is written in very small print of a parent’s job description.  Very small, 3-pt font. We don’t want it.  We didn’t ask for it.  But we’re still employed*…and go to sleep dreaming about how we may can take a sick day…

for real one day.  You know …

(YOU KNOW, DON’T PLAY LIKE YOU DON’T),

a day when you feel “bad.” A day when you just need to sleep without waking to an alarm clock ringtone, watch the Today show and judge all the people, and consider and contemplate just what is life, perhaps scratch the ears of the dog that licks his own fanny, and think about what life must be like with kids…

(the ones you’ll NEVER feed Chic-fil-A to or vaccinate or allow to use an electronic device or let stay up past 8)…

and then you’ll wake up selling Buicks of your own.

*stay-at-home moms are employed you judgy-Mcjudgersons

++As this goes to press, the author feels alright and no indications of the stomach virus are currently in sight

Author: dailyparrscription

Fun gal with a lot to say View all posts by dailyparrscription