Early Tuesday morning the Cheesedoodle woke up unhappy and radiating temperatures close to that of the surface of the sun. You know, 101 degrees or so. We gave him Tylenol, put him in the bed with us and went back to fitful sleep, dreaming of things like ovens and summer in Georgia and Missouri. By breakfast, however, he seemed fine enough that I took the mackerdoodle to a free big screen showing (her first movie theater experience) of the Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything – but that’s a post unto itself.
When we arrived home the cheesedoodle was snoozing on his daddy’s lap and Jonathan had that hot, disrupted look of someone who had just spent two hours with a sick, tired, cranky, clingy, crying bundle of one year old. That look, not uncoincidentally, is the same look as someone who has only spent 45 minutes studying Greek that day and has to be at work in two and a half hours.
For the next twelve hours the cheesedoodle alternated between “should I call 911?” and “Please stop tackling your sister.” It was a long afternoon, evening and night. When Jonathan came home from work the cheesedoodle was sleeping on my chest – something he hasn’t done in almost a year – and I was busy changing my plans for the next day to “visiting the Walgreen’s clinic.” Of course that meant that by Wednesday morning the fever was gone, and the cheesedoodle was eating, cool(er) and generally acting as if Tuesday had been purged from the record.
But the bug wasn’t finished with us yet.
Standing in CVS pharmacy, the mackerdoodle suddenly burst into tears. “Mama! Something in my tummy wants to come out!”
There were two ways that could happen (short of an Aliens moment) and neither were pretty. Fortunately, we got to a restroom in enough time and my daughter was completely dismayed at the intestinal explosion she experienced.
“What that sound mama? What’s wrong with me? I have a bug in my tummy? Is it coming out now? Can it be all done now please?” It about broke my heart. It didn’t help that once all the pyrotechnics were completed and we were heading to the van, the mackerdoodle, feeling much better, was singing, “I had a big poop. A Great. Big. Poopy poop.” at the top of her lungs down the center aisle of CVS.
So that, dear readers, is the story of my two-day hiatus from blogging. If you ever regretted my absence, I’m sure you regret the story of it even more. It did seem that the bug was vanquished, because we saw no more symptoms for the rest of Wednesday. But there are two more intestinal tracts living here. I’m sure that no one, not the least my blogging public, wants to see a sequel to this particular drama.