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Next Time, Just Stay Home With Your Stomach Bug
I spent the entire night tossing and turning, feeling miserable and dealing with the aftermath of a stomach bug. I’ve dedicated a couple of chapters in my unfinished book to my utter disdain for these nasty little viruses, but honestly, I can’t help but share my thoughts now. The first publisher I met with asked me about my target audience, and I replied, “Moms who despise stomach bugs.” They didn’t seem interested. I guess there’s not a huge market for “vomit-haters” after all.
But now, as I lie here feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck, I feel justified in my frustrations because we’ve been exposed to yet another round of this dreadful illness. It’s like a scene from a war movie—someone delivers the bad news, and there’s panic. That was me when the daycare called to let me know my son had thrown up. The poor woman on the other end tried to calm me, but I think she’ll be more careful next time she has to deliver such news. There must be a kinder way to inform someone that their world is about to spiral into chaos.
As I lay in bed, my husband, Alex, is doing his best to keep everything afloat. He’s a wonder—bringing home the bacon, changing diapers, and feeding our little ones. But let’s be real; it’s not the same. Men don’t always notice what we women do. The kids keep sneaking into my room, and I hear one of them say, “You can’t go in there! Mom is really sick!” I’m too weak to get up and give that kid a stern talk. Maybe I am dying; perhaps they should be warned.
Laundry is piling up, kids are crying, my head feels like it’s going to explode, and nausea is my unwelcome partner. And I can’t help but point fingers at you. Yes, you, average-sized family. One or two of you were up all night feeling awful, but you still had places to be and people to see. You dragged yourselves into the church potluck looking a bit worse for wear—pale skin, sweat on your brow, and eyes that screamed, “I’m about to hurl.” You left your questionable macaroni salad on the table and cheerfully explained how your husband and kids were sick, yet you still felt the need to attend. My first instinct? To hurl that untouched monkey bread at you.
If I were more confrontational, I might have confronted you, but instead, I took action. I grabbed my kids, threw on our jackets, and abandoned my casserole—it was too late to salvage it anyway. I needed to protect my family. I made a quick whistle to signal Alex, and he immediately knew it was time to evacuate. He scanned the room and, without hesitation, scooped up the diaper bag while our teens quickly followed suit, knowing what was at stake.
As our van sped away from the church, I noticed one of my kids chasing after us. “Just go!” I shouted at Alex. We have other children to think about—survival of the fittest, right?
Unfortunately, the spores had already infiltrated our world. Day four came, and I succumbed to the illness. From this sickbed, I ponder my faith and my feelings about you. Let me make a plea: if you’ve spent the night vomiting, please, for the love of all that is good, stay home. You can text, email, or even send a carrier pigeon if you have to, but do not mention it in person. The world will not stop turning because you’re absent. Trust me, Sunday school can survive without you.
So here I am, slowly recovering while sipping Imodium from a fancy glass. The Phenergan is finally kicking in, and I’m hoping to sleep soon. Someday I’ll let go of my annoyance at you and the chaos you’ve brought into my life. Until then, I’ll be digging out from under laundry and waiting for those carpet cleaners to arrive, all while picturing you clinging to your porcelain throne. I’d almost feel sorry for you if I weren’t feeling so bad myself.
Next time, just stay home. Seriously.
For more insights on this topic, be sure to check out our post on home insemination. And if you’re considering home insemination, CryoBaby has an excellent kit for your needs. For more information on pregnancy and related topics, visit the CDC’s resource page.