It's snowing. Again.
I just came off a 24 hour stomach bug. I feel like I have a massive hangover. Can't move. Head aches. Dehydrated as all get out and can't find anything my stomach will accept. A seven pound weight loss is so not worth it. I do NOT understand bulimia.
I finished reading The Secret Garden with Princess on Sunday night during the Super Bowl halftime. Have you read that one? In it Colin is a self-declared invalid, certain he will die before adulthood, goes into hysterics because he feels so bad. Yesterday, as I waited for the hours of nausea to pass and I didn't stand, I could understand Colin. I don't know what lead him down the road to staying in bed (sickly toddlerhood, I guess), but once you've lain abed for more than ten hours, everything hurts. My hips ached so badly I couldn't lie down anymore. My head ached so fiercely that I didn't want to be horizontal. I ended up sleeping upright on the couch. Which worked until my neck protested. Sickness is awful. I hope to not repeat it very often.
Because 34 year old mothers of four are apparently carriers of the plague, we are rarely invited to super bowl parties. Because we are rarely invited to the parties, but still want to participate, we have our own parties with our four plague carrying children. I stocked up on plenty of fatty foods, laid out a picnic blanket on the living room floor and gave my children permission to go at it. By the second quarter, when they kept asking if they could have XYZ, I gave them the following lecture, "Go ahead. Eat whatever you want. But make sure you stop before you make yourself sick. When you are a burping, farting, puking mass of diarrhea on the bathroom floor, don't come to me for sympathy."
Two pieces of pizza and a reasonable bowl of rotel dip followed by an orange. Really. That's it. But at 2:30 in the morning, while camped on the bathroom floor and begging God to just let me puke and be done with it, I wanted some sympathy. I got none.
Justice. That's what that is.