Sick ick ick

Stomach bugs are yuck. Let me type that again. Yuck. You know it’s going to be crappy, no pun intended, when you awake on day one of stomach bug mayhem to, “Momma, wake up. Yucky diapoo. Hurry!” He wasn’t kidding. He was toting around a super saggy, slightly leaking, bucket of yuck diaper and was none too pleased about it. Poor little Kraken. Poor momma. To add insult to injury, one of the only traits he inherited from his momma was a sensitive skin issue. So, on top of explosive poops, my young spawn developed a yeast infection all over his unknown zone. Poor little Kraken.

After five, “My belly hurts,” which were promptly followed by intestinal distress, I made an executive decision that it must be nap time. The only sign that the Kraken is ill is if he goes like a little angel into his room and snuggles into bed without the slightest protest. He is ill. Two and a half hours later, a record, nay a coma in Kraken time, my little blushing angel emerged from his room only to report, “pooped again mommy. This is crazy!” Yes, my love, this is crazy and stinky and sticky and mommy is over it.

The afternoon passed much the same way, pooping and cleaning and gagging and cleaning and wiping and gagging and yuck. Once the kids were safely tucked in bed, I opted to sleep on the couch so I could tend to the sick babies while my husband got a restful night’s sleep. (It’s true. I can be nice.) At 5 am I ventured into the master bathroom in search of incense sticks I could shove up my nose in preparation of day two, only to find my husband sitting in the shower. Not a good sign. Sure enough, he had been exploding from both ends for nearly six hours. Poor little husband.

So here we are in the middle of poo warfare, and I am the one who is still unscathed. It will hit me I am certain. Maybe during my daily trip to Target, in my favorite jeans. Perhaps at Mom’s Night Out with ten other mothers I don’t yet know very well. But I’m betting my belly will begin to gurgle at this fancy dinner coming up where I will be wearing a dress and tights and heels, which will not allow me to get to the bathroom in a timely fashion. (For the record, I wore tennis shoes on my wedding day for fear of falling on my face when I walked down the aisle. Running in grown up women’s shoes is not looking promising.) Would you offer a man a job if his wife poops herself during dinner? What about if she yaks on the appetizer platter? Just wondering.

Gosh Darn It!

We went through the McDonald's drive thru today and ordered The Kraken chicken nuggets, apples and milk in his Happy meal. We didn't notice until we got home that they had neglected to put the nuggets in the box. So, my husband and the Kraken went back to remedy the situation. Here is the conversation that followed.

"Ok, Let's go inside and get your chicken nuggets."

"GOSH DARN IT, Daddy."

"No, son. Let's be nice to the lady."

"Oh. No GOSH DARN IT? Come on daddy."

"Be nice."

"Ok daddy. Nice to the lady. Good idea."

I guess The Kraken was nice because he returned with chicken nuggets and a second toy. I'm pretty sure he didn't learn the GOSH DARN IT technique from me, the slightly spineless, non-confrontational, quiet, avoidance is key momma. I guess my only question is where did he first see this behavior modeled. Because whoever got the harsh treatment probably needs an apology from me . . . or maybe from the Kraken.