Monday, February 8, 2010

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

That's what we've been doing since the stomach virus hit last night. We've washed clothes, towels, sheets and children. I'm praying that I've put a set of clean sheets on my bed that will remain there for at least a week. As many times as I've changed them in the last 24 hours, maybe two weeks!

I am always amazed at the mother in me that can hold a vomitting child and not vomit right along with them. Or worse, push them onto the floor and run out of the room yelling, "Ewwww grossssssssssssss!" Because really, isn't that a much more reasonable response to puke than trying to catch it in your hands? And yet, there I am, holding the child and wishing the garbage can or the toilet were just a bit closer.

Any puke stories you'd like to share?

1 comment:

  1. Bless you. In our last round, in which I thought I would DIE, Peyton was so worn out from the illness she just started puking in her sleep. Just vomit right there and sleep in it. So not only was I throwing up, I was on vigil for any movement from her so I could try to lift her head up and over a bowl before she threw up and rolled over in it.

    Awful. And I don't want to blame ChickFilA, because I *heart* them, but all signs point to those *#@$# cows.