What a rare mood I'm in.
Why, it's almost like being . . .
and the parallel breaks down completely at that point. My day began night before last with Lil'MissL throwing up just as I was getting to the good part of a rare chunk of piano time. With a little cleanup and teeth brushing she was back to sleep, complete with small trash can handy in case of a repeat. I finally got to sleep later (much later), and then was awakened sometime in the dark of the night by the Anderman calling out: "Mommmm! Moooommmm! Aaaaaauuuuuhhhhh!", and just as I got there, he threw up.
Don't feed your kids leftovers right before bed, k?
So, he got the same treatment as his sister, and got back in bed as I headed downstairs to put his bedding in the wash. Now, I have this odd habit of counting stairs. I'm not sure why, except maybe that I've long had a habit of counting lots of things as I'm walking. I've always been a little afraid of stairs, since I have a history of spraining my ankles, and didn't grow up in a house with a staircase. So, I'm going down the stairs, bedding in one hand, the other on the banister. As I get to 10 or 11, I look up out the window into the night, my mind wanders for a second as I think of how good it will feel to get back in bed, and then everything happens in a split second: I step down to the hard flooring, but it's not there; grab for the newel post that's not under my hand yet; see the lights outside disappear behind the windowsill; and hear this "crrrunchSPLAT" as I hit the floor, my rolled ankle beneath me.
Thankfully, only a dignified yelp came out of my mouth. (Well, and a few sobs of despair, as I realized what I had done, and the impossibility of taking care of a young family while completely laid up.)
After a few minutes the horrifying pain I was waiting for didn't materialize. I tried a few ginger steps, and found I could hobble without (much) discomfort. Vern had come down and put the bedding in the laundry and gone back to bed, (he's a bit muddled when awakened from a sound sleep, and I was a bit muddled myself), so I went back upstairs and laid down. Then I remembered where the homeopathic arnica gel was. Downstairs. I went and got it, (with noticeably more discomfort), and slathered some on a couple of times before falling to sleep.
Yesterday morning there was good news and bad news. Good news: no serious bruising on the ankle. Bad news: I definitely couldn't move around much. I dug out my trusty ankle brace/wrap thingy, (it only took me 90 minutes to find it, but I did get a big bathroom box unpacked in the process), and made it (sort of) through the day.
Then, last night, MissE complained of bitter thirst before bed. I gave her a drink out of my water bottle, and then had a drink myself before hitting the sack. Again, just as I was falling asleep, she threw up. And four more times before 5am this morning. The last time I had Vern get up and help her, because I was dangerously close to being sick myself. This morning I found out I was wrong. I was sick.
So, today has been spent alternately sleeping and wishing I could sleep. Vern has taken care of meals and naptimes, and I've directed traffic from the couch. The munchkins have handled it pretty well, and BabyB has been a dream today. But despite that, I'd rather have a lousy day with the kids and a fussy baby than feel like I've been through a laundry mangle and rubbed briskly all over with a barbecue brush. It is with deepest gratitude that I reflect back on the fact that while I have come close, I haven't had nausea to the same point the kids have.
And now, sitting up has exhausted me, so I'm going to go lay back down and while away the hours breathing and listening to the munchkins play in the backyard. So far I haven't even spent real time knitting. Three rounds on the cuff of the Boho Soaker for Apple Yarns is all I could manage before dropping it in exhaustion. It's so strange, being weak like this.
So, go knit a few rows for me, and I'll be back later. After twelve hours of sleep, and a good, hot shower.