A weekend that began with such promise has dribbled, literally, into a Monday spent alternately crouched over the scuttle hole and cleaning child vomit off clothing, rugs and bedding.
The Sickness is upon us again - the second bout in as many months and third in four months. As usual, it was the little one who tipped us off to its arrival. The race against time began at 12:38 p.m. on Saturday, when we finally found a place to park in the Old Port. We were meeting Ron, Pam and Syd for lunch. But what was this? The puke was just pouring out of Emma when I leaned in to unstrap her from the car. I yelped in horror and held her at arm's length as she continued to make like the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop.
"Sneak attack!" I hollered, thunderstruck at the treachery of the Sickness. During the lengthy streetside cleaning and re-dressing, I consoled myself with the thought that it was the cheap donut snack in the car that did it to her. She seemed much happier after unloading and I wanted to believe it, but deep down, in that place I've spent most of the day purging, I knew the race was on. Could we squeeze in one day of fun, survive the overnight and get back home before the Sickness struck us all?
We got off to a good start. Lunch was excellent, the Old Port charming as usual. The ocean settled its usual funk over the place and I was content to just breathe deep and let the kids run around a little park. Emma seemed fine. Bea browsed her way through the cool prints at her favorite Emerson Booksellers but somehow emerged empty-handed. Maybe it was just the donuts, I thought, subtracting $200 from my mental tally of the weekend.
The loud splat of child vomit on Ron's hardwood floors brought me back to reality. A good eight hours after the first volley, Emma had let loose again, this time while wandering by herself in the darkened livingroom. It was 8 p.m., the grown-ups were about to eat dinner. Mmmmmmmm. There were few options at the time. We weren't driving two hours back that night. The gloves were coming off. The Sickness was becoming more aggressive.
By the time we got home Sunday, Gage had begun to green around the gills. He woke us at 1:30 this morning with bellows of distress. I jumped out of bed and snapped on his light. Big mistake. The carnage made the Passion of the Christ look like a tickle fight. Returning to my bedroom to recruit help, I found Bea shouting Europe at the sink. The Fear spread through me. When would I be cast into the crucible?
Desperate handwashing has left me with two cracked husks hanging from my arms. Still, it may have fended off the direct blow. In a rare family reversal, I am the only one left standing, though most of the day was spent sitting.
It is early evening and the Sickness has waned, leaving us to ponder questions of tolerance and lifestyle. With what frequency am I willing to tolerate these outbreaks? Or, more rightly said, how long am I willing to have a child in day care? And before you say it, there's your answer. We've had this discussion before. With both of us working full-time, there is no other way. Shit.
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