F refused to go trick or treating and was disappointed that he only had two Halloween parties. For some reason he was expecting five. Because of his refusal to trick or treat, I have no Halloween candy except for the two bags we did not hand out, and I’m torn between ripping them open and eating them myself and returning them. We bought our candy at 4.30 on Halloween and the selection was limited. I have Twix and Fifth Avenue left. If it was Take 5 or a variety bag there would be no decision to make. (Candy has since been returned)
For breakfast F is eating Cheerios with no milk and carrot sticks. He’s really into carrot sticks. I appreciate that he’s into carrot sticks, but the problem, and yes, there is always a problem, is that our carrots came from our garden so they are dirty and misshapen. In order to provide him with carrot sticks I must wash off the dirt, peel the knobby, stubby things, and cut them into “sticks.” It is a hassle.
Everyone in my family- F first, followed by B then T had a quick, freak illness. Perhaps it wasn’t so quick. It started with days of mild intestinal discomfort (the two boys for more than a week- a trip to the pediatrician provided no answers) and ended with a random burst of vomiting. Two or three times in a one or two hour period, then done. F’s vomiting started at dinnertime. He was fine by morning. B’s started in the middle of the night two nights later. T’s the next morning. So far I have no symptoms. But I’m waiting. Anxiously. I’m sure to be next. If I avoid this I’m sure to get something far worse.
My mother was here for B and T’s illness. B was sick in the night and kept me up a bit so when I heard my mother up with F in the morning I decided to ignore the sounds of the baby and let her take care of it. At the time I didn’t realize he was sick too. I slept in for another half hour or so, though it was hardly sleeping since I heard every word, every piece of conversation between my mother and the boys. I came down to see what, if anything, my mother was feeding the children and I saw the baby, with a nasty clump of something in his hair eating goldfish. Not the healthiest breakfast, but it could have been worse. I got myself something to eat, released the baby from his high chair and he promptly vomited all over my feet. He didn’t seem too distressed by it, so I grabbed a towel to cover the mess and he vomited again. Two more towels and I got him upstairs and in the bath where he splashed happily.
I went into his room to get him some clean clothes and found that he’d vomited sometime in the night or morning, probably the morning. There was vomit all over his crib. Everywhere. Both sides. How my mother managed to miss it, or the smell, I don’t know. The nasty clump in his hair was, of course, dried vomit. Awesome. I took a look in the laundry and yes, his pajamas were covered in vomit too. My mother changed him without noticing.
Clean and dry the baby drank some water and took a bite of B’s bagel. And vomited all over the floor again. I changed him, put him down for a nap and went downstairs to properly clean the kitchen. My mother came down and told me I need to start taking better care of the dining room furniture. I used to keep it covered, why don’t I cover it anymore?
This is furniture that was my grandmothers. A year or two ago my mom decided that the salt air at the shore was no good for the furniture so she should trade furniture with me. Mine was more casual anyway, which was better for the shore. So we traded, and I immediately covered the table and buffet with tablecloths so the furniture wouldn’t get destroyed by children or cats. My mother complained bitterly about the cloths. She could not understand why I needed to cover such beautiful furniture. She’d had it for 30 years and it was still in great shape. My grandmother had had it for 20 and it was still beautiful. Why did I insist upon covering it. So I uncover it and voila, now she’s fucking complaining that I don’t get better care of it.
I told her that if she didn’t want me to have it we should trade back. I was perfectly happy with the other dining room set and I’d be happy to return the nicer one. I then told her that perhaps she could pick a better time to bitch to me about how I don’t care of things. My husband and child are both sick and I”M CLEANING UP VOMIT from the kitchen floor. I explained that I probably wouldn’t be quite so enraged about her poor timing if she hadn’t insisted I uncover the goddamn furniture in the first place. She didn’t say another word. Not even a word of apology. For once I didn’t say another word either.
And that was that. The boys are fine, B is fine, I am fine. I am waiting to see if I don’t get something far worse. I’m bound to get something far worse since I’m the only one who made it through that minor illness unscathed.