The Stomach Flu

The Stomach Flu.
Three words guaranteed to send everyone running away from you. Julia came down with the stomach bug on Saturday morning - right as the hot water heater went out and just after the play date had arrived. What started as the whiny "My stomach hurts," turned into full-fledged stomach flu about an hour later. And lasted all day long. She couldn't even keep ice down. Her stomach really hurt her, and we all knew it. Over. And. Over. Again. The crying lasted as long as the flu bug did.
On the repair front, luckily my (extremely handy) neighbor was not only home, but willing to go down to Osh for me and purchase the hot water heater part, which he then installed for me. And luckily, Ed wasn't sick so the play date had someone to play with while I tended to Julia. So those issues were a relatively easy fix. (Note to self... go buy Tom a case of thank you beer ...)

Julia was a bit better by Sunday, but not exactly well enough to go with me to pick the big boys up from their Floridian week-long winter escape (because you really need to escape that brutal LA winter...) My other neighbor offered to watch Julia so I could get the boys - and Ed and I journeyed down the 405 to pick up "the brothers." Everyone had really enjoyed the previous week - with the exception of the school restarting for Julia and Edwin. The big boys had a great time being spoiled and pampered by Dad and grandparents, and the little two and I enjoyed the peace and quiet of home. The only two kid thing would have been a bigger piece of cake, if not for the stomach flu that hit on Saturday. Being the sweet and loving child that he is, there was no way Edwin was avoiding catching the flu from his sister. (Because if she gets to lay in bed and watch TV all day, then I want to do that too. And be right next to her. And breathe in all her germs.)
So Monday morning as I'm on the phone with the school excusing Julia's absence, I hear:
"Mom! Ed's throwing up!"
To which I quickly add another excused absence to the call right then and there, and escape off the phone to clean up. Or decontaminate. While Edwin didn't have the wherewithal to be sick in the bathroom, at least he chose the tile floor and the kitchen trash can. After his initial projections, I get him into the bathroom seated on the floor.
He looks up with a grin and proclaims proudly: "I threw up 8 times!"
"Eight?" I ask.
"Yep. 8. I counted." he answers, still grinning.
And so I start the Cloraxing and the laundry. When determining what more needs immediate cleaning attention, I ask him, "Ed, did you throw up in the bed?"
"Nope," he replies, "I just peed in it."

While dealing with the stomach flu is possibly the worst gig as a parent, it was not lost on me that we have it relatively easy here in this country. We have access to clean water. And working sewer lines. We have power and heat, and if you count noodles as a food group, plenty of food. Thank God we don't live in Zimbabwe, where cholera is raging. And the life expectancy is in the mid-thirties. Where you aren't just knocked out by vomiting; you are dying from it. I know this because the boys brought me back the Washington Post from their trip home through Dulles Airport. I'm not sure I would know this if I was left only to the LA Times. A paper which dedicated not one, but two! large sections to the winter replacement TV shows and the 2009 movie guide. The fluff I found in this past Sunday's Post was how to park and walk to the Inauguration, complete with maps. Oh, and a bit about a reader contest to design Michele Obama's dress. Say what you want about the liberal media... at least the Post has real news in it.

So I'm home taking care of recovering kids. Edwin's case of the flu was much milder... thank goodness. The house smells like Lysol. And I hope I've cleaned enough to prevent Colin and Aidan from coming down with it. I'm crossing my fingers and knocking wood, because there is only so much flu one person should be required to handle. I wait (not so patiently) for Brian to return from the business trip. To Italy. I'm so jealous that he is there.
I. Can't. Even. Stand. It.