Warning: This post contains descriptions of not-so-happy people feeling unwell. Proceed at your own risk.
The week before the week before Christmas was an interesting one at our house, and by interesting I mean colorful, and by colorful I mean of the technicolor yawn variety. It was an act in three parts, if you will.
First there was Anneke’s performance. She told us she was not feeling well in the morning, and honestly she was not looking well either, but this was a Saturday in December, which meant the schedule was nonstop.
First there was a holiday dance performance that both she and her sister were to perform in, then a gymnastics birthday party to attend, then we needed to go immediately home for her step dad’s birthday celebration.
She timed it well, somehow managing to get in her bit between activities. She danced her way through her performance and did quite well; upon arrival at the gymnastics venue she was looking a bit worse – pale and somewhat listless, but still determined to participate. By the end of the party she was looking green and resting in the car, seat way back.
After fetching her younger sister and both gift bags at the end of the party, we started our short drive home.
She started up almost immediately.
“How much farther? I’m not feeling good. Really, mom, I’m not.”
“We’re close, very close, you’ll be okay,” I replied, but I knew she wouldn’t. I handed her her goodie bag and told her to empty it out and hold on to it “just in case.” She did as she was told, and used it. For what seemed like forever. It just kept coming. Her younger sister, sitting right next to her stated, “I’m not watching this,” as she turned her head to the side looked out the window and continued sucking on her Now ‘n Later. Luckily my girl had only had water in the few hours preceding the incident, so the copious spew was clear-ish and as far as I could tell, odorless. But even though she had amazing aim, and managed to get all her emissions into the paper goodie bag, the bag was no match for the wet, heavy load. Just as I managed to dump clothes out of a plastic bag and hand it back to her, the bottom of her now ruined goodie bag burst open, leaving all her recently emptied stomach on her lap.
She looked pathetic, with her soaking wet legs and spit dripping from her lip, but all I could do is laugh, and tell her I hoped she felt better because there were people coming over as soon as we got home. In fact, the first guests were arriving as we pulled up.
Merrell started feeling unwell the next afternoon following our return from The Nutcracker, and did not eat much of her macaroni and cheese or carrots at dinner. I should have known better, because I swear every time this girl pukes it’s some form of semi-digested mac 'n cheese. But I live in denial at times, and really did not see it coming. If I did, I would NOT have put her in her usual top bunk.
But come it did. Right off the top bunk onto the bottom bunk. This stuff was not colorless, nor was it odorless. No, no, it was orange and stinky. Luckily, it hit the sheets but not her sleeping sister in the bunk below. Bunk assignments were quickly switched and my poor girl continued to hurl into a trashcan placed lovingly by the side of the bed.
She was fine by noon the next day. But not without managing to pass it on.
My husband looked a bit off a few mornings later, but assured me he felt fine.
Turns out, he did not. Because a few hours later I received this email:
“…Threw up in the bathroom at Ralphs. Yes I know, I "ralphed" at Ralph's. I did finish shopping after though. No quitter here.”
Poor man. It hit him in the produce section. And I’m assuming it was colorful, although I did not ask for details.
I do, however, have to ask, once again, who names a grocery store Ralphs? I could not believe it when I moved here way back when. Ralphs? Really? Ralphs? Who’s going to shop there?
Sick people, that’s who.
Here's to a healthy, happy 2010!