My sweet girl has the stomach flu. I hate the stomach flu. I hate it when their little bodies are wracked with spasms, and I hate it when they cry and beg you to make it stop. If only.
The stomach flu brings out different qualities in each of my Murphys. Ryan runs for the hills. He hates puke and blood and boogers. Come to think of it, all bodily fluids make him just a wee bit woozy. He does rodents and bugs - touches them, hunts them, exterminates them. I do the bodily fluids. It's why our marriage works.
When Gan gets the stomach flu, he becomes apologetic. Last time he had it, he said to me, after about the sixth time he retched that night, "Mom. I think that all the bad germs are out of my stomach now, so you can get some sleep."
My sweet girl, on the other hand, confronts the stomach flu with the passion of her Irish heritage. She gets steamed, and she focuses her rage on the source of all evil in her life. Gannon. (He does get into her stuff and throw things at her and generally do things to irritate her, so she's not entirely off base.) As she was dry heaving for the second time this morning, she said, "Why can't Gannon have the stomach flu instead of me?" She followed it up with a few comments implying that she got the stomach flu from Gannon because he had it in DECEMBER.
He does look to be feeling just a wee bit guilty about something.
Love,
Momma T.
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