We had the stomach flu here at the Brehm barn. I’ve had Cancer but I feel like I can still say, the stomach flu… blech… like, outside of diseases but inside of the grouping of minor illnesses that don’t kill you when you watch them, the stomach flu is the worst. Especially the “coming out of both ends” stomach flu, if you catch my drift {which, I’m guessing you did. But ya know, I gotta cover all my bases.}. Also, I hope you didn’t actually catch the drift this last week and a half around our house because apparently, the GI germs have been attacking us and cutting us off at the knees. At least that’s how the bulk of us have felt having spent such a portion of time in the loo.
I would love to not actually talk about poop here but
- We are in a safe zone. If this zone feels unsafe to you, GET OUT NOW.
- I’ve already blogged here regarding my fears of crapping all over my baby’s head in labor.
- I’ve shared about how each of my children’s diapers looked like they contained the contents that one might normally find inside a kleenex… stringy, mucousy, yellowy-green poo.
- I had months of chemo and c diff wherein I shared the fact that I had a regular issue with the loosey doosey.
- I’ve talked about having my husband’s orange-sized ball of stool {aka turd} taken out of him and then inserted into my stomach to start a new colony of tiny poos.
So, I think we’re here, people. In the place. Where I talk about poop like I’m talking about going out to get the mail. Just a regular occurrence. If we’re lucky.
Also, it’s not like I’m trying to woo anyone here. And the jig is up. Read the book. EVERYBODY POOPS.
So, I digress. Per the uzh.
Anywho… stomach flu. The looseys had swept through a coupla the dudes already. And I was feeling a little high and mighty, I must say. Mama’s gut was holding strong. I was running. I was gyming. I was cleaning. I was pretty much on cloud 9. Even as I changed the Littlest’s dipe upwards of 10 times a day, full of goo, I was all ladidadida he must be teething…
The boys — ALL THREE — were picked up by grandma and grandpa for a camping adventure early last week. And mama had plans. If you’re a mama, you know what I’m talkin’ about… laundry… errands… returns… floors to mop… sheets to wash… vacuum the whole house… oh yes… and work on work {because yes… I have some work now}.
Tuesday, I was a maniac. Cleaned to my heart’s content after spending the morning hangin’ with my mama friends doing a project for an upcoming blog post. Tuesday night, date night. With the hubs. It was perfection.
Wednesday. I slept in a little. And was starting to feel sluggish. But I figured it was just because we were out late. Cleaning… again. And by Wednesday when Adam got home, my head was pounding. And by the time dinner was over, my stomach was churning. And finally, the main event happened about 1 am when the shit hit the toilet. Everywhere. And then the barf started coming. Which, you know, is just the worst. Both ends. Oy.
First, I was effing terrified that I had cancer again.
Once I got over that {errrr… the hubs talked me out of my lunacy}, I got sleep off and on. And then, spent the next 36 hours in bed. The first 24 of which, I barely remember. Except there was barfing. And diarrheaing. And sleeping.
On Friday, my in-laws were bringing the boys home when I received a text {while still in bed, watching Gilmore Girls because every time I got out of bed I started to fall over. And before you go freaking crazy, yes. I will get to the Tic Tac part of the story soon. Very soon.
So my in-laws, they’re bringing all three boys home in their extended cab pick-up when all of the sudden, the Middlest let’s Sally RIDE, ALLLLLLL OVER HIMSELF. HIS CARSEAT. HIS PERSON. My mother-in-law, bless her soul, attempted to catch a bit of the flying debris, while turned around from the front seat — in a diaper — because that’s all she had. And because she’s genius.
And then, when they got home, she carried him into the shower, washed him down, snuggled him up in a blanket and placed him next to me, in Sick Bay.
And in the meantime, while we watched some terrible kid’s programming called Canimals which made me wish I had a melon baller at the ready so I could scoop out my eyes, she hosed down his carseat. The woman is a Saint. Seriously.
But AGAIN. I digress.
So, the Middlest and Mama, down for the count. But we both rebounded a bit on Saturday morn. And each had a little more pep in our step. Until naptime.
The Middlest went down for nap at 2. And he slept. And he slept. And he slept. I kept going in, checking to see if he was breathing {he was}. The hubs would crack the door. As it got to be 5. And 6. But he slept. And if you knew the kid, you’d know that this is as odd as Chelsea Handler wanting to cover her boobs in a pic. Finally, at 9:30, after putting the Littlest to bed, I went in, sat on his bed, rubbed his head and he stirred.
Me: Hey bud… you okay.
Him: Ya…
Me: Can we get a pull-up on? Mama will help, k? And let’s have some water okay?
Him: K.
I grabbed him a pull-up. Could tell he was a bit clammy. Grabbed his water cup. And decided I’d get him some ibuprofen, too. I walked through the dark and filled up his water cup. And then. I looked down.
In the bottom of the cup, through the glow of the nightlight, I saw it. A layer of pills. A layer of pills was lining the bottom of the cup.
JEEEEEEEEEEZALOOOOOOO! CRACKERS AND TOAST! WHAT THE FRENCH BREAD LOAF?! HOLY HANNAH!
holy. shit.
I could tell, I was gonna have a panic attack. I thought the kid was just tired all day. And here, he’d gotten into my medicine cabinet. HE’D GOTTTTTTTEN INTO MY MEDICINE CABINET. EFF! AND I’D LET HIM SLEEP THE DAY AWAY! WHEN HAD HE TAKEN THEM?! WHAT WERE THEY?! I needed to call 911! I needed to call my husband upstairs immediately. MY KID DID NOT SLEEP ALL DAY BECAUSE HE HAD THE GI BUG. HE SLEPT ALL DAY BECAUSE HE OD’D ON SOMETHING!!!!
I turned on the bathroom light. I shook the cup, nothing moved. But I saw them. Tiny. White. Capsules.
And peering up at me. On those pills. LITTLE FACES.
WAITAMARYLOVIN’SECOND.
FACES?!
These were not pills. These were not my pills. If they were anything, they were sugar pills. No no, my friends. Stuck. In the bottom of that little red plastic cups were the remains of previously yellow, banana flavored Minion Tic Tacs.
So, it was just a GI Bug. That wiped us clean. Literally.
It had nothing to do with cancer. It had nothing to do with ODing.
Sunday, we were all a little less worse for the wear. And I am hopeful that any unaffected stay that way.
And I threw away two other containers of Tic Tacs that they’d purchased at the store. Because the little faces were taunting me, laughing at me, and telling me to go take an Attivan, every time I caught their gaze.
So, that’s the night my 5 year old OD’d on Tic Tacs. But obvi. He didn’t OD at all. Mama just be crazy.
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