I have had horrible, gut-wrenching stomach aches almost every day for the past 3 months. I think maybe it’s my tap water; if so, I’m locating the nearest radioactive factory and I’m suing the radioactive crap out of them, and then I’m giving that money to the schools in our town because they’re out of paper and it’s not even close to the end of the semester.
And there you have it. My master plan.
I’m a total baby when I’m sick. Even as an adult, fully capable of holding back my own hair while I puke, I still get the urge to shout "Mom!" as I run to the bathroom. Afterward, I am compelled to tell someone that I just threw up. I’ll either stumble dramatically out into the living room, or whine pitifully over the phone to Caleb, whose usual response is "So?"
Mia threw up a million times last night. I kept her out of school today, thinking we’d stay holed up in our house, nice and cozy on the couch, but, as you know, on the days when you really shouldn’t be going anywhere, you suddenly become diaperless, juiceless, and banana-less. And, if your family is like mine, you could probably manage without the diapers–but if there are no bananas in the house, there’s hell to pay, and I, for one, would rather chance taking a barfy kid to Walmart than listen to the blood-curdling screams of a toddler for more than 2 minutes.
Mia did not throw up in Walmart. But Merrick threw a tantrum when I wouldn’t let him eat a banana in the store.
T-ball season is upon us and I am super-stoked. I guess Mia is mildly excited, too.
Cheyenne had a writing test at school today; she seemed a little annoyed that her teacher suggested organizing her thoughts in a neat little outline. "I just write without thinking, Mom," she says. "I don’t have to write anything down in little cluster bubbles. It doesn’t take me forever to come up with something intelligent to say. I just write; I love to write."
I know, I know what you’re thinking–she get it from her momma. I, too, get annoyed at the very thought of organizing.
Well, it’s late and I’m out of things to write about. That, and my stomach is killing me–think I’ll go call Caleb.