It snuck in unwelcomed, attacked the youngest first. My once healthy child laid moaning and vomiting all night long. There was no sleep that night for this mommy-on-a-mission, I scrubbed and cleaned, determined to keep the virus from spreading.
All that work and it didn’t matter, the virus wiggled past my defenses and struck the middle child next. More than a day later, caught unprepared, my daughter spewed in the truck with still and hour before we would be home. As you can imagine, the rest of the ride was dreadful. Covered in it and really unable to do much about the mess, we sat in silence shivering, the cold Wyoming wind blustering through the rolled-down windows. We had no choice—the cab of the truck was a gas chamber with the windows rolled up.
Once home, I bathed the children and hosed the truck cab down, sanitizing every nook and cranny. I must testify right now, it practically took the whole bottle, but Fabreeze is a miracle product.
In the middle of my frenzied cleanup, the oldest child went down next. He thankfully was big and wise enough to reach the toilet first.
Through it all I washed my hands so valiantly, every time we touched. Once it again the virus laughed, and stabbed me in the gut. Thankfully the violent pain is short lived, no more than 24 hours. But after staying up with everyone else, I’ve been suffering for 72 hours.
Oh the work of a mother is never done, you see I still have one left standing. My stalwart husband hasn’t been hit yet, and thinks he never will. For my sake, I hope he’s right. I’ve had enough of the monster named PUKE.