My stomach violently cramps. I figure it's the coffee. I keep drinking it. Another cramp. Whoa... wait a minute, I wasn't supposed to start my period for another two weeks. Coffee should cure this. I drink more. Another cramp, and then another and then another... Uh-oh... this can't be good.
I run to the bathroom (of which I have mentioned before there is only one of in our apartment) and it is occupied. My sister is behind the door violently throwing up. I'm getting suspicious that maybe I have the flu... She comes out, pale and shaky and says, "Dude. I have the fucking flu." My suspicions were correct, as usual, I am always right. I run into the bathroom and vomit.
*Skip to about twelve hours later*
"Well, that was a short flu," I say stupidly out loud to my sister.
"Yeah, thank god the kids didn't get it," my sister stupidly says out loud to me without knocking on wood.
*Skip to about three hours later*
"MOM! My stomach isn't feeling so good...," yells my oldest daughter from bed.
"Well, hurry and get into the bathroom if you think you're going to puke!" Although I love my steam cleaner I really would like to avoid using it at 2am if at all possible.
"UUUhhhhh..." My oldest daughter pukes. A lot.
While I'm pulling her hair back into a ponytail I hear my middle daughter scream from bed.
"MOM! My tummy hurts!"
"Ok, well, if you have to puke, line up behind your sister."
My oldest finishes puking, washes up and goes and lays down.
My youngest jumps into the bathroom and violently empties her stomach, not into, but on top of the toilet.
I pull her hair back and bust out the Lysol. I spend the next hour or so spraying down light switches, door knobs, the toilet and all of the brownest walls where the kids slide their hands across the white paint with grubby hands. Lysol is the greatest. Lysol would make millions off of me if they came out with their own ladies perfume. I would spray myself with Lysol all day, every day if I could. It would be even better if Lysol came out with those little cardboard car deodorizers to hang from your rear view mirror and if they came out with children sized suits made of plastic and a Lysol lining so that I could quarantine and de-germ all of these small creatures that infect me weekly with a new virus/not-so-common disease... like the time my kids gave me Hand, Foot and Mouth disease. That was fun.
So, I finish Lysoling and get the two girls into makeshift beds on the floor near the bathroom in case of another need to run into the bathroom in the middle of the night. I put a trash can between their heads and go and lay down... finally... I can get some damn sleep. It is about 3:30am. As soon as my head hits my pillow I hear the newborn squirm. And then I hear a splash. And then I hear a cry. And then I hear a squirt.
I get back up and strip her crib. I wash her up and change her explosive diaper and her digested formula sprayed outfit. I Lysol her crib. I Lysol myself. I lay her back down and wait until she drifts off to sleep. I resume my position on my pillow. It is 4:20am.
"Mom...," my oldest daughter whines quietly. "I think I have to puke again..."
"Me too...," my middle daughter cries.
The baby squirms.