This morning I was having a lovely dream. We were on a boat with my in-laws in Hawaii. There was some discussion about my father-in-law's driving, and then my mother-in-law threw up.
K: Did you just throw up?
MIL: Yes, I hope it didn't get on you.
K: Just a little spray in the air.
Then she did it again. A WOOOSHHH of vomit.
Except we weren't in Hawaii, we weren't on a boat, and it wasn't my mother-in-law. I opened my eyes to find my child vomiting on me.
UGH! you say. Which time? The first time or the second time (Blue Raspberry Flavorice) or the successive 5 times. His father, showing his generosity by sharing his flu with his son, called at 10:30 to say that he was sick and was coming home from work. Not 30 minutes after he got home, I heard the boy working his magic in the kitchen.
D: Do you want some bread, buddy?
K: Why are you giving him bread?
D: He wants some.
K: He is vomiting up bile.
D: Am I supposed to tell him no?
No? Tell the boy no? Is that an option?
Fastforward 2 hours later. The husband handed the boy over to me. And he vomited what looked disturbing like it had at some point, been bread. He had the kid for 2 hours and when did he throw up? Within 20 seconds of being handed to me.
There was a diarrhea incident, but I won't bore you. For the next 10 hours, every time the husband handed me the baby, the baby threw up on me. Not on his father, just me. I'm on my fifth outfit of the day. The boy is on his second. Because early on he figured out how to lean over to vomit, completely missing his own clothes.
If there is a God, this will be the 24, and not the 72 hour flu.