The Storm

It was going to be a stormy night. I battened down the hatches, closed up the house, and snuggled into bed with David.  David Sedaris, that is.  The sound of rain splattering the windows woke me the next morning. This piece of information, I later realized, was a clue of what was to come.  Sophia typically wakes us with "I'm HUNGRY. I want juice. I wants eggs for breakfast. GET  UP."

By 7:45 she was in bed with me, and I was pleased with her sudden absence of whining and commented as such. Once I got up and headed downstairs, I flowed from task to task. Before I knew it, the dishwasher was unloaded, the bottle was made. How easy it was to start my day without stumbling over the little sprite who constantly tells me, "I want to help." I found her lounging on the couch, watching a show. I didn't know what had happened to make her suddenly so easy to live with, but I was enjoying it. She came in and asked me for a drink.

And then it hit me. 

She's sick. One and a half years ago she had the stomach flu so bad, she landed in the hospital for four days. And everytime she was about to throw up, she'd ask for a drink.

"I knew it. Everytime we go to the damn pediatrician, if I didn't get there with sick kids, I'll surely leave with sick kids. EVERY FRICKIN' TIME."  I didn't want to take them to their four year check up, I had told Dave. "Why?" He had wanted to know. I didn't explain.

Heading into the pediatrician, I beat the children over the head with "don't touch anything, don't touch your faces, fingers out of mouths and noses, there are sick kids and germs there."  I used my whole purse size bottle of hand sanitizer AFTER we had washed our hands in the exam room. Twice.

We had plans to travel to IA this upcoming weekend, and I didn't want some pediatrician visit getting us sick.

Dave came downstairs after I had my realization that Sophia was sick and I shared my prediction with him. Unphased, he continued getting ready for his day. Meanwhile, Sophia has run upstairs. The storm of nausea and vomiting has begun and will stick with her in fifteen minute cycles.

"Please," I guiltily ask him, "stay home. If you don't have something major today, I'm gonna need help."

Last time this stomach bug hit us, it hit hard. We were stuck in our house, everyone too sick to move, and no one to get us soup, ginger ale, crackers, or bread from the store. The stores couldn't deliver when I needed the products. I had to prepare this time.

I cleaned Sophia up then set to work recalling all the items that helped us survive the last round of the stomach bug.

In between vomit episodes, with Andi in one arm, Dave out shopping, I clear paths to the bathroom. Clean the kitchen to ready it for all the rinsing and sanitizing and scrubbing that I know will come.

Dave gets home with the artillery.  

GAME ON MOTHER FRICKIN' stomach bug. I'm ready this time.