Lord of the Flies

Thursday at 4am the grim reaper of stomach ailments decided to do a little two for one visit. Mark and I were down. Flattened. Totally. Utterly. Completely. Incapacitated. Thursday at 7am the children were up. Energetic. Totally. Utterly. Completely. Ready.

The best thing I can say about it is we survived. All four us. Heath and Stella got to watch Curious George. Sid the Science Kid. Super Why. Dinosaur Train. Sesame Street. I don't really remember any of these shows; just hazy bits and pieces filtering through bathroom visits, body-slamming aches, and fitful sleep. They ate saltines. Drank ginger ale. Powerade. And for dinner, they dipped Doritoes in Chicken Noodle soup. (These items were thankfully dropped on our front porch by HeHe. Except the Doritoes. The short version of how those came into our possession is a poor and sickly Mark took our comforter to a laundry mat. The sweet lady behind the counter gave him Doritoes. The longer version is gross. Even more gross than Doritoes.) They rearranged furniture. They made "gotta put these in the trailer on the back of the truck" piles of books and toys. It was Lord of the Flies, the American preschooler version.

Only the results were not of catastrophic proportions. When Heath came into our room this morning at 7:15, I felt surprisingly well. A headache, most likely from no coffee the day before. Sore rib-cage from, you know, all of that. But pretty much what I felt was a certain elation from having made it.

I'm not sure I'm ready for ice cream just yet. Yeah. It was that bad.