What a crappy week. My youngest daughter missed four days of school. Not only was she sick, but she was lethargic, crabby, and bossy. I guess I should say that it was nice to spend all that extra time with her, but it wasn’t nice at all. It suuuuucked.
It began with a Tuesday morning vomit on her bedroom floor. The rest of the day was vomit-free, so she had me thinking she’d be back to school the next day. But on Wednesday she couldn’t keep anything down. It was horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE! Really, the first time I rinsed her barf-bucket was enough. I was like, whoa, I hope she doesn’t throw up anymore today.
Well, I rinsed her barf-bucket another fifteen times. I’m over the trauma of that day, but the real bummer is that the barf-bucket was formerly my favorite salad bowl. My wife gave it to her. We have two big mixing bowls, similar in size. She uses the other one for popcorn.
“Why didn’t you give her your bowl to barf in?” I asked.
“Yours is bigger,” she said.
It might–I say might–be a teensy bit bigger.
Anyway, I’ll wash it hard today. That means I’ll really put some force into my washing maneuvers. But I think it will be impossible for me to throw vegetables into that bowl until the memories fade.
If that’s not enough bodily fluid-talk, I have to write something about my own recent issue: the Big D . . . diarrhea. Read on after the cartoon. If you dare.
I almost decided not to mention it, you know, to avoid embarrassment. I’m easily embarrassed y’know? So like if we were all sitting around a big table, I certainly wouldn’t stand up, get everyone’s attention (I pictured myself clinking a fork against a glass), and talk fifteen minutes straight about my diarrhea.
But I can’t see you and–for the most part–I don’t know you. So . . .
In the past I though of diarrhea as something temporary. Once or twice a year I would come out of the bathroom and think–or say–wow, I just had major diarrhea. Then we would joke about it. We would sing the diarrhea song. Ha Ha Ha. Then I would forget about it and everything would be back to normal.
Well, it’s all fun & games until your stool activity turns into some sick version of Groundhog Day. Seriously, my ass has never touched porcelain this much in any two-week period of my life. My hamstrings are like iron. My wrinkled right hand (wrinkled from washing, along with my left) is cramped into a deformed wiping position. You should see me typing this. It’s just sad.
Now, if someone laughs I say “Hey! People die from diarrhea every day y’know?”
But I don’t live in the Congo. It’s my fault I haven’t visited the CVS diarrhea aisle. It’s my fault I haven’t seen a doctor. But it’s something that has always worked itself out–you know, a ONE-TIME thing. Jeez!
Yeah, I’m pissed at my body.
It’s time I go on the offensive up in here. It’s time to fight back.
And I’m going to win dammit!
Who’s with me?