Hey Frands! I’m so excited there are more of you reading along. I’ve been watching you stop by from my stats page.
Not creepy. AT ALL.
Ok, so I’ll try to stop checking so often, but I did want to let you know that I’m really looking forward to you being here. Don’t be scurd! Subscribe, or comment on a post to let me know you were here. It’s not like I won’t see it from that stat page I mentioned earlier anyway.
Good grief with the weird, already, Emily!
Just know I’m happy you’re here with us.
Now, for the real reason I’m writing: Grosspocalypse 2016. If you can’t handle mom speak for throwup, poop, or other bodily functions, best hit the x now. I speak truth up in hurr.
Everyone should know about that time the stomach virus took over our house. Hank fell victim first. His favorite time to let us know he’s sick is around 1 AM. He’d also rather walk the longer distance to our room than right across the hall to the bathroom to pukeishly (it’s a word, don’t worry) let me know he’s puking.
He was hurting pretty bad and having a tough time keeping anything down/in/off the floor, but he kept asking to go jump on the trampoline between the puke bucket and the toilet trips. He’s a trooper that way.
But then Pat got it.
And he insisted it was reaching Ebola level.
Like, he couldn’t even get out of the bed except to exercise his virus demons. And beg for me to run to Freds at the butt crack of dawn to get him Ginger ale. He swears that’s his cureall. Like the dad from My Big Fat Greek Wedding with the windex. If someone’s coming down with a cough, they should drink ginger ale. There’s healing powers in that sodiewater. He swears.
I’ll spare you the real details and just keep it at “It was real bad.” Marnana has flirted with the idea of catching it for the last 3 days. I thought she for sure was sick, but it turned out to just be a really productive trip to the bathroom.
Did I really just type that sentence about my sweet 3 year old?
So I’m hoping really hard that all the Lysol we’ve been through is keeping everything under control and that it’s all on its way out. Hank was able to do daycare yesterday & Pat went to work. Sure signs of a full recovery.
Also, my washing machine was all “It’s so nice to see you this many times in a row, Emily. I can do a lot for you if you’d just let me.”
I threw my hands up at her when she started in on me about how to live my life and left a particularly rank pile of bed sheets in there. Get off my back Maytag!
Wash your hands, people. Wash. Your. Hands.