For g-r-o-s-s, that is.
So "On the Mend" was a tad premature. We've gone six for six with the technicolor yawn, and the fun just keeps on coming.
On Friday it appeared that we were indeed on the mend. As we plowed through make-up work and kept Ainsley from catapulting off the dining room table, I heard one of the boys yell, "Yeah! Dad's home!"
At one o'clock in the afternoon? Not a good sign. Sure enough, another Dolin bit the dust, though having Zofran in the house eased his suffering considerably.
Saturday morning I zipped into Kroger to resupply laundry detergent and pedialyte before taking off for a women's retreat. A ways into the retreat, I looked down and realized my sweater had a large dollop of vomit on it. Who says I can't accessorize?
Various complicated reasons found us attending three different Masses on Sunday. While everyone was over the hump, John and Ainsley were having issues that lingered and lingered and linger still.
Our pediatrician called Monday afternoon to tell us he wanted something called a stool study on Ainsley. I was thrilled to see that Ainsley had a lower g.i. explosion first thing Tuesday morning. That was timely, I thought, as I cleaned her up. The women from my prayer group were just arriving, so I bagged up Explodo-Diaper and left Explodo-Jammies for later. After prayers, I zipped around running a few errands before hitting the lab where I learned that Explodo-Diaper would not fit the bill. The nice woman in charge explained how I should go about procuring an uncontaminated sample (is that an oxymoron or what?). She then handed me five vials to fill. Five vials.
I eventually ditched Explodo-Diaper and arrived home to deal with Explodo-Jammies. I lined Ainsley's diaper with plastic wrap as instructed.
As I have shared before, Ainsley is not one to perform under pressure. Eventually she saw a little action, but only enough to slide off the plastic wrap and land all over me. I had decided that Explodo-Jammies needed a second run through the wash, so in it all went.
The clock continued to tick today. At long last, Ainsley woke up from her nap and did the job. I filled the requisite vials and back to the lab we went. We bopped into the park on the way home. As I picked up Ainsley she once again and without benefit of plastic wrap pooped all over me.
I came home and changed while dwelling on the fact that I have reached my limit. I am done with poop; I am done with vomit, I muttered to myself. I walked into the bathroom and realized the former statement was not quite accurate.
After serving a gourmet meal of hot dogs and boxed macaroni and cheese, I looked across the table to see John's plate untouched and John himself doubled over assuming the exact posture that I observed when this germy debacle began nine - count 'em nine - days ago.
"My tummy hurts! My tummy hurts," John moaned. Seconds later Ainsley tossed her cookies (or her macaroni and cheese) all over me.
I see from this hilarious picture over at Elizabeth Foss' blog that we are not the only ones so plagued.
Remember Lurch from The Adams Family? There's a primal groan just like his emanating from the Dolin household.