We must have gotten into some bad sushi

Why do I spend the better part of every holiday season vomiting? Really. I'd just like to know.

Man.

My family has been sick since mid-November with a godawful plague. It seems like swine flu lite. What I mean by that is that it includes hacking cough, chest congestion, runny nose, and miscellaneous yuck, without the incredibly high fevers of swine flu proper. I think it's possible the kids actually do have swine flu lite, because they've been vaccinated, which can give you less than complete immunity. I think I recovered from middling swine flu right before we went to Texas. I think Big K has had swine flu proper for weeks.

But that wasn't awesome enough. No.

Last Wednesday, we got like 20 inches of snow or some shit. It was awesome. Snow day extravaganza. The planet that is The Woods essentially stopped spinning. My sister came over to bake Christmas cookies. I felt so dang festive I dressed my children in matching outfits. Nothing indicates my sense of festivity like putting my kids in matching outfits. They were ready to rock. See?

We had a pretty fun day baking. Grandma J called and said she was bringing over chili for supper. It was all very festive. And then around 5 p.m., I was smashing Phook on the belly with a pillow, and she sort of puked a little bit. Just like a toddler version of spit-up. I chalked it up to my beating her and the fact that she'd eaten nothing but sugar all day. But then like half an hour later, she informed me she had a sore "budd" (short for buddha) and needed medicine. And then she said she needed to spit in a bucket. And then she spit in a bucket like 15 times and on the 16th time she blew her cookies in that bucket. (Can I get a shout-out for Phook's excellent vomit prediction? I don't think many 3-year-old's do much other than spontaneously puke somewhere really horrifying.) So, yeah, I was hopeful it was a sugar problem (although both my kids have steel guts inherited from their father, so I deep down knew that was unlikely). But then she did it again. And proceeded to spend the entire night heaving ho like a pathetic little creature.

The next day, we did the Pedialyte-sip two-step and she held it down and proceeded to get better. But then Big K walked in the door looking like nine kinds of hell at about 1:30. He crashed in bed for a couple hours and woke up boiling. He then sorta kinda basically blacked out/passed out and said we needed to go to the E.R. upon regaining consciousness. His fever was 103 and they packed his head and pits in ice to bring it down and gave him some I.V. rehydration. He hadn't tossed his cookies but other unsavory things had occurred and he was all kinds of fubar. So that was neat.

We got home from the E.R. that night and I felt the godawful and sadly familiar rumbling in my gut signaling I had calls to make to my friend Ralph, and that I'd be calling him on my big white phone. I did not disappoint myself. I proceeded to spend the entire night on the bathroom floor in a horrific stew of my own spewings of all varieties, freezing and shaking and getting charley horses in my legs once the dehydration started to get really special. I crawled into the tub a couple times in the middle of the night to rinse the offal off of myself and I'm sincerely surprised I didn't drown. Finally morning came and Phook came down the stairs and found me lying in a pile of filthy blankets and discarded soiled pajamas.

"What's a matter wif you, Mumma?" she said. I told her I was real sick. She went and got me a bottle of 7Up from the fridge, which awesomely had been opened so it was already flat, and then she gave it to me and said, "Don't drink it all - just little sips." Dude. I'm not kidding. My 3-year-old child actually provided me with effective care. I then crawled my feverish arse back into the tub and she tested the water for me to make sure it wasn't too hot. I'm not kidding. She said, "Don't worry, Mumma, it's not too hot and not too chilly. It's just real warm." Thanks, little buddy. So then I floated in the tub while she watched and eventually Big K and Bigs came downstairs and bless their hearts, my parents agreed to take the kids off our hands for the day, because we were sincerely dead. We could not safely have cared for our children. It was so friggin' bad.

Friday passed in a feverish haze and eventually I was able to walk up the stairs (instead of crawl), and that was good. The days since have passed in a similar haze of gradually getting strength back, but Big K and I are still nowhere near 100%. Phook seems totally fine and Bigs has yet to go on his maiden vomit voyage, so we are counting our blessings and hoping his relative good health holds. Did I mention that both kids are still hacking like the Marlboro Man?

Overall, I just need to note that I am pissed. I am nowhere near done Christmas shopping and haven't even started wrapping. Cards aren't sent. Baking is utterly derailed. House is a disaster. And now I'm feeling frazzled and Scroogey. I hate that. I don't want to be Scroogey. But my holiday vibe was hijacked by my intestinal tract and I'm feeling bitter about the whole transaction. I should be done with my baking and shopping and just have a few things left to wrap. Instead I'm all Scroogey. Sonofabitch. It's the most wonderful time of the year. I was supposed to gain 8 pounds instead of puke up 8 pounds. What a crock.

So that's that. I'm pissed. I don't have my shit together. I will get it done. There isn't a question of getting it done. I just prefer to enjoy it. So now I am left to focus on trying to enjoy it while doing it in a hurry while trying to ignore the bastard that is stress that keeps scratching at my happy holiday door. Today is the first day I've even attempted to do anything since this shit storm started, and it's just been catching up on general household maintenance. Ugh.

The only solution is to put my kids in matching outfits. And to get myself a belt. I definitely need a belt, at least until I can get back on track with gaining my 8 pounds of frosting fat.