The Puke Plague

Sick, sick and more sick.

And I suck when I’m sick and in dealing with the sick. Which has made the past few days random snippets of hell.

After a week watching my son strategically wipe gallons of green and yellow goo from his nose all over our furniture, carpet, and clothes, we took him to the doctor only to find he has bronchitis. Two days later I woke up around 4 a.m. feeling like that douchebag on the Internetweb Machine Thingy who takes a flaming shot and catches his mouth and throat on fire.

I’m the biggest baby on the planet when I get sick—shocker, I know. I have these long, green boot-socks that I put on and I walk through the house silently letting everyone know I’m officially ill and to please back-the-fuck off. And then I disappear to the bedroom for a day.

This past Saturday the wifey and I had the most magical of nights planned. A friend of ours (@momomatics) and us got a joint baby sitter. Kids were sleeping over at their house. I bought 439 candles to light throughout the bedroom. I paid a 36 piece string band to play in our bedroom. Shit, I even emailed Al Green to see if he’d show up to add some extra mojo to the ole love palace. Game was on!!!

We dropped the kids off and the four adults hit the town hard. Beers and shots were flowing, tons of laughing in the air, I was busy razzing the waiter, and I occasionally I’d write little love notes on napkins and slide them over the wifey’s way.

We roll into a 9:30 p.m. showing of Shutter Island and settled in. Exactly one hour later I go pee and I’m standing there as the phone vibrates (cause yeah…I listen to the pre-movie stupid dancing phone douche that tells me to put my phone on vibrate). I look down and it says I’m getting a call from @momomatics.

So I answer, “What woman?!!!”

And I hear, “ummm…this is the babysitter and your son is throwing up.”

And I’m all, “Are you sure? Like, did he just choke on something by accident and he’s better now? Or maybe he’s just pranking you. You should go check and call me back in a few hours.”

She says, “No…no I’m pretty sure he’s sick. There’s a lot of it. And, please tell Ms. (@momomatics) that her toilet is clogged and won’t flush.”

Yeah…that’s how my super sexy, kick-ass, romantic night came to a screeching halt. Half-a-movie, kid puking, and visions of a puke-clogged toilet.

By 11:15 p.m. we had both kids back at our house, son face-first in the toilet, and me, selfishly in a corner holding one of the 439 candles crying and asking “why baby Jesus…why??!!!”

And now…as of last night…the wifey is now getting a microscopic view of the toilet as she “talks to Ralph on the big white phone,” and the boy has started round two of the pukes.

Please let the daughter and I be the last people standing! If not…let it hit me so hard that I drop at least ten pounds…the last ten I need to lose before increasing my running pace by 20 seconds a mile.