Sick Day

I'm pretty sure I had food poisoning this weekend, and I'm pretty sure the Ranchero Chicken Soft Taco from Taco Bell was the culprit.


Saturday night I heard Rollie come around to Jeff's side of the bed, and Jeff, who for some reason transforms into a giant softy when he's awakened from a dead sleep, lugged Rollie between us on the bed.  I rolled out of bed, fully intending to usher Rollie back to his room, when suddenly my guts started churning and my mouth flooded with saliva.  And because I'm a mom and didn't want to alarm anyone, I hurried across the house and genuflected at the foot of the porcelain throne in the kids' bathroom, where I could vomit in peace.


I spent the next, oh, twelve hours or so curled up in a fetal position on my bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, occasionally awakened by one of my children pulling on my face as Jeff hovered somewhere above, asking if I needed anything.  And at some point that afternoon I made it to the couch and wrapped myself in a blanket cocoon, grunting when addressed, and emerging from the covers every hour or so to sip some ginger ale.  


As I languished in delirious self-pity, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the activity around me.  And what I heard was familiar, and pretty darn funny....


Jeff:  Rollie, get off the coffee table.
Rollie: Why?
Jeff: Because I said so.  Get. Down.
Rollie: But Dadda, I'm trying to reach my motorcycle.
Jeff: No, no, Baby Elsa, don't chew on that remote.
Rollie:  What's Baby Elsa doing?
Jeff: Rollie, I said get down.
Rollie:  Dadda, there's an alligator coming!
Jeff:  I can't play alligator right now--I'm trying to start dinner.
Rollie:  Dadda, come on!  He's coming!
Jeff:  Baby Elsa, what are you chewing on now?
Rollie:  She's got Ollie's food in her mouth.
Ollie:  Roof!  Roof!
Jeff:  Just a minute, Ollie!
Rollie:  Ollie wants to go potty, Dadda.
Jeff:  He'll have to wait a second.  Come here, Elsa.
Rollie:  Dadda, the alligator!
Ollie: Bark!  Bark!  Bark!
Jeff:  Elsa, get that out of your mouth!  Rollie, stop pulling on me, please.
Rollie:  Ollie really wants to go potty, Dadda.
Jeff:  Too bad.  


Then I hear the sound of a pot boiling over and Ollie scratching at the door.  And Jeff swearing under his breath.  And while I really do feel like I'm about to die, a part of me can't but feel a tiny bit smug that Jeff, Mr. Calm, Cool,  Eternally Composed himself, is having a little trouble keeping up with the chaos that is pretty standard in my afternoons.  Maybe it was time for Mr. Yardstick to make an appearance.  


I managed to sit upright at the table and feed Elsa about two macaroni noodles before she began her food-flinging antics.  Since the sound of wet noodles hitting tile wasn't exactly making me feel less nauseated, I retreated back to the couch while Jeff cleaned the kitchen and herded the kids into the bathroom.  And while I heard giggles and splashing and warnings echo from down the hall, I pulled the blankets more tightly around me, watched the Superbowl pregame show and thought, Wow.  I got to sleep in, laze around all day, didn't have to lift a finger, and now I can spend the next three hours watching football and drinking non-diet soda.


Food poisoning really isn't that bad.