Only there’s no beer, no ping pong, no passed out sorority chicks, and no fun. What do we have? A riot of vomit all over my fucking house.

AUGH!

All winter we’ve been assaulted by a myriad of stomach viruses; it has been a plague to which no one has been immune. Tonight, it started with the tank telling me he spent recess in the nurse’s office because he had a tummy ache. Then at dinner, he refused sweet potatoes, chicken, and green beans. I told him if he wanted more white potatoes he had to eat three green beans for me.

Oh, aren’t I a genius? Me and my mad parenting skillz. You know what those three green beans bought me? A bad acid trip through frat boy land. First, he barfed all over the kitchen table. Luckily, he was the only one sat there, the rest of us having completed our meal. Then he turned sort of green and looked at me with panic in his eyes and I quickly said “IfyouhavetopukesomemoreRUNTOTHEBATHROOM!” so he streaked to the bathroom, conveniently located next to the kitchen, trailing barf behind him. I didn’t hear any exorcist action in there, so I quietly whimpered, cleaned up, and disinfected the kitchen.

When I was done, I realized that I hadn’t seen the tank the whole time I was cleaning. He was still in the bathroom, so I opened the door to check on him. Figuring it had been quiet, I didn’t expect what I saw. It was like a bad Flickr stream come to life. Vomit was everywhere. In the toilet. On the toilet. On the plunger. On the toiletbrush. In the garbage can. On the garbage can. On the Clorox Wipes. On the wall. And, of course, all over my poor, pathetic son.

Nightmare doesn’t even cover it. A year of Zippy Carboni stories from 8th grade Western Civilization with Bob Montera flashed through my head, with Bob’s voice reminding me “Vomiting is a contact sport.” I desperately hid my face and willed myself not to breathe. The smell was a noxious assault on the senses. The sight was not much better.

I ran out of the room to regroup. A wide-eyed lunasdad followed me, and I could practically hear his silent prayers “Please God, don’t ask me to help.” Despite his obvious discomfort, he gamely offered to take one for the team and handle the bathroom. I waved him off and said “I got it, I just…I can’t even figure out where to start. My god, it’s in the hinges of the toilet seat.”

I took stock, armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, a bottle of Fantastic, toilet bowl cleaner, and SoftScrub. It was, frankly, not a salt and vinegar kind of job. It was really more of a bleach and a garden hose kind of job, but when I looked hopefully at lunasdad, he quickly caught my vibe and vigorously shook his head. The hard way it would be, then.

I managed to get it clean. I refrained from setting the room on fire. I managed to extricate my son and get him into the tub with his soiled clothing, so that I could at least hose HIM down. lunasdad got him bathed (and disinfected). I scrubbed down every surface and then I walked around and bleached every doorknob, light switch, faucet handle, and toggle I could find.

After all that, that kid had the nerve to ask me for more white potatoes. Tomorrow promises to be a long day. hoo. ray.