This week started at midnight, Saturday.
I spent almost six hours vomiting. I have the bruise on my forehead (from where it repeatedly slammed into the toilet seat) to prove it. Sunday is a fog, as I mostly slept or whined. Monday I awoke, wondering if I could go to work. Kerri tells me she's nauseous. For the next 36 hours, she's one hearty gag away from tossing every cookie she's ever eaten. Bridget's pooped on at least three different daycare workers. She's single-handedly turning that daycare center into her own brown-stained Jackson Pollock painting. Abby vomited in the hall in her after-school daycare. ("Did it make a cool splattering sound, honey?" "Oh, yeah it did, Dad!") Autumn woke up last night and sprayed a days worth of food down the hall floor, the bathroom, the toilet, and the bottom of the tub. So I'm running up and down stairs, back and forth to schools, up and down at work all day ... all one one leg.
One leg. Because for some reason (old gym shoes, old work shoes, not being used to having to wear work shoes for anything longer than a wedding or funeral in the past 10 years?) there's something wrong with the bottom of my left foot. (Like Daniel Day Lewis, I know.) If I walk on it, it hurts. But there's no bruising and, when I push on it, it doesn't hurt. But when I walk on it: Damned if it doesn't feel like someone's sliced open my foot and jammed a marble up underneath the skin at the ball of my foot, near the pointer toe. Or sergeant toe. You know, the one next to the big toe.
So, have I been writing? No. I've barely been thinking.
Of course, it could be worse. I could be my brother, who's now in Day 5 of trying to pass a kidney stone.