It was Friday night and Al was on the couch, shivering.  I finally convince her to get in bed after assuring her I’ll take care of the girls for the evening.  We’re only a few days out from CB’s mysterious stomach bug, so we’re both thinking it’s her time for fun.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her.  “I’ll take care of everything, and besides I never get sick.”  Which is somewhat true.  I’ve probably had a stomach bug twice in the last ten years.  It’s not some incredible immune system or vitamin regimen.  No, I think it’s just proper training.  After years of eating Panchos and fried gas station burritos, my system can’t be touched by some mere virus, or so I thought.

Fast forward to midnight.  I jump out of bed just in time to begin my body’s full on liquidation sale.  We’re talking closeout deals on both ends…everything must go.  And go it did, for the next 7 hours.  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep.  Al found me on the couch the next morning with the girls wandering around the den.  She quickly told me I looked like death, and wondered if I was ok.  Whatever she took the night before worked on her, because she was in a 12 hour coma and completely oblivious to my all night symphony.

I spent the rest of the day on the couch.  I didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t move.  At 1:00 Al left for a baby shower, perfect timing on her part.  I warned her that if the girls decided to take my keys and cruise downtown, all I could do to stop them was a stern look.  She told me everything would be fine.  Sure.

I finally managed to sit up around 3:00 that afternoon, a bold move on my part.  CB, being my perfect little nurse maid informed me that I had nothing to eat or drink for the past 24 hours.  Apparently, she thought I looked even worse than Al said.

CB just brought over a plate of crackers, when MK walked up.  MK opened her mouth to say Daddy.  At least, that’s what I thought she was trying to say.  It was hard to tell with the 73 pounds of vomit that came out when she opened her mouth to speak.

I don’t know about you, but when you’ve spent 12 of the last 24 hours bunkered down over a commode, being puked on is probably the last thing on your agenda.  However, I didn’t have much of a choice.  MK aimed, opened her mouth, and I was covered.  Literally, the part that didn’t splash off my face managed to land in my lap.

MK starts crying, CB is doing her best Nana Connie impression waving her hands frantically in the air and screaming, and me…I just started laughing.  What else could you do at this point?

I grabbed MK, stripped her down and put her in the tub.  I told CB to sit in the bathroom with her and if MK threw up again, then well, just yell.

I stripped my clothes off and was standing in my boxers in the middle of the den when Al walks in, completely oblivious, from the baby shower.  I’ve got puke running down my leg and still scattered on my chest.  She barely makes it two feet into the house before she’s trying to back out, and rather quickly at that.

I direct her to the bathroom where she gladly goes to avoid the puke duty, and I continue my clean up.

It’s a horrible situation, and one I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  Yet, somewhere, in the not too distant past, the refrains of “Boom ba-ba Boom ba-ba” are echoing through my mind. Truly, it’s probably the only thing that could compare to my living room.

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