The morning started off beautifully. I mean, people were up at 7:15. Happy. Smiling. Agreeable. We had a playdate in the books for 10am at Princeton Park. All looking very forward to it. At 8:30, all children and even a mommy were dressed. Snacks and bags of possible extra things (wipes, diapers, shorts, shirts) were packed. I felt energized, patient, light. It was Monday morning, and that was just fine by me.
While I was in the kitchen getting French Toast and cereal together, Heath and Stella were joyfully (and amicably, I insist on adding) playing a new favorite game called, Run the Grandfather Mountain Marathon and Get a Medal. The game pretty much consists of the two running in circles around the kitchen, dining area, and living room repeatedly, while we all hoot and holler things like, Way to go, wooooo!!! And, Keep up the pace, alright!!!! Then they both stop and get a medal around their neck. More hooting and hollering. Then the race begins again. Just as they were working their way around for their fourth lap, both loaded down with multiple Mark (and a couple of mommy) marathon medals clanging around their necks, I hear Heath say, Oh no, Gigs, she sicked up.
I round the corner and there she is, and it's barf city. All over Marshall University's marathon medal. Thunder Road, smothered. Girls on the Run 5k (that's mine), a dripping mess. It takes me a moment to figure out my best course of action. Clearly just standing there and staring at her wasn't helping, because she begins to cry and say, Mess, and reaches out for me. And it is. A mess.
I clean everyone (because I end up in the, uh, mess) and everything up, and decide to proceed with the day, ready to chalk it up to a running belly shake-up, or a medal choke-hold incident. Then fifteen minutes later, it happens again. And then another fifteen minutes, again. And just as I was deciding we will not be attending the playdate, guess what? Yep. Again.
Heath was sad to miss seeing his friends, and as sure as I am that the belly disruption is probably due to Stella's love for drinking the pee-poo-pool water in copious, thirst-quenching amounts, I err on the side of overly cautious when it comes to not being part of the germ chain. I also like to think that I am building some good stomach virus karma, as it would seem the Ropkos are currently in the red. Remember the Parent Council Meeting/Stella Barf-o-Rama? While we are taking a trip down throw-up lane, let's not forget the Heath on the Tire Swing with his Preschool Pals Puke-Up at the end of the school year. Christmas 2009 (pre-blogging days) our little foursome gifted one another with an epic stomach "flu" of Exorcism/head-spinning proportions. As much as I love Autumn, and all the string of birthday celebrations and holiday and brisk weather and Pumpkin-related tidings it brings, it also wells up a sense of dread deep in the pit of my stomach, because I know eventually, just when we're comfortable and healthy and really living up life, the grim reaper of gastrointestinal hell will strike his wicked, beastly bug upon us, flattening the entire family for at least 10 days.
But I'm optimistic. Despite a barfy noon and nap time, sweet Stella hasn't "frowed up" since, and was doing an excellent job of eating her "keep her hydrated" popsicles, and doing her darndest to keep up the race pace with Heath. Perhaps the up-chucks will begin and end with her (the bravest one in this group, by far), and more importantly, we've finally built up enough sick-up credit to avoid the slap upside the gut this winter.
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