On Tuesday, I awoke with a rumbly in my tumbly. Skip to 4 hours later, and I was bowing before the porcelain queen in what I so affectionately call the "poo potty" at work. You know the one I'm talking about. It's usually the handicapped stall in the most tucked away bathroom in the office. It is the savior for those of us who are poo shy. We are lucky enough in our building to have one toilet in each bathroom that is a fully-enclosed toilet, complete with walls and a door with a deadbolt. Everyone knows what your mission is when you enter that room, so much so, they should keep a fully stocked magazine rack in there.
Well, I chose the poo potty due to the fact that not only am I poo shy, but I'm puke shy as well. I didn't want anyone hearing me losing my breakfast. All it took was thinking about what everyone else had done in there prior to my visit, and I was able to vomit effectively and efficiently and be back at my desk within 5 minutes. I'm sure my boss would have been proud. Anyway, I spent the next few hours in misery and finally surrendered at 3pm, leaving early to go home.
I was quarantined at home that evening, barely being allowed to speak to the children and definitely not allowed to touch them. I stayed home the next day and started to feel better but not up to par. The kids knew I was sick, but that didn't stop Little Miss Victoria from taking a swig of my Diet Dr. Pepper. You can guess what happened next. Thursday at lunch time we got a call from the school telling us to pick up Victoria because she threw up. She spent the next day and a half with her daddy as he proceeded to test out the illness by letting her eat bacon, french fries, a frosty, and more. His rationale was that she was sick, so she should be allowed to eat whatever she wanted, despite the fact that she was suffering from a STOMACH virus.
Trevor refused to get near her. He has OCD as it is, so having a sick, slobbering sister come within 10 feet of him was his worst nightmare. I wish his concern was without merit, but he awoke at 3 am this morning throwing up in a bowl. He proudly showed off his accomplishment to his father by thrusting the bowl under his nose while he was sleeping on the couch. Trevor has diligently kept count of the number of times he has vomited (6 at last count) and keeps me abreast of all medications he has taken so that he does not meet Michael Jackson's fate. Seriously, he's worried that he's going to die from over-medication like Michael Jackson did. I guess I shouldn't tell him about DJ AM.
So the 5 of us are cooped up together inside for the long holiday weekend. Boy did I pick the wrong time to come off Zoloft.