I'm so glad I cleaned the house on Monday. Because there has been an entirely more unpleasant kind of cleaning going on for the last day and a half. The kind of cleaning I'm not comfortable describing to you, but I'll just say it involves EVERY SINGLE ONE of the towels I washed on Monday, plus a handful of cloth diapers when those ran out, a gallon of vinegar, buckets of boiling water, and at least a cup of baking soda. Also, the washer and dryer are starting to squeak.
On the bright side, I've lost two pounds (no, I haven't gotten sick--just lots of heavy cleaning and a fear of eating). We also have several VERY clean spots in our carpet.
If I make it through another day without getting sick, it will mean I have superhuman DNA. Or that I take my vitamins and Jeremy doesn't.
Also, friends, there is nothing sadder than watching a baby throw up. I know, I know, it's a disgusting mental image. But think about how revolting and horrible it is when you're an adult, and you know why it's happening, and you know that it will be okay. Kids, they don't know. It's just completely bewildering and awful.
Emmy's young enough not to be bothered by the revolting aspect. Once the physical discomfort is over, she's all, "Eh. I'm tired. Let's go back to sleep." But Grace just cries and cries. I think she's afraid to eat now, too. She hasn't gotten sick since last night, but all she's eaten today is a piece of toast, five frozen peas, and a tiny bite of pizza.
We ought to leave for Denver tomorrow, provided I don't get sick. If I bring this illness to my sister's house, no one would ever find my body, and my sister would be one rusty gold van richer.