In between the fun games and cute conversations of this week lies something almost too horrid to mention.  Something grosser than gross.  Something that is quintessentially “children”.  When I was in nursing school I called pediatrics, “Juicy Little People”.  I thought SICK kids were JUICY.  I never in a million years imagined this much bodily fluid would SPEW AROUND LIKE DRUGGED UP BUMBLEBEES from perfectly healthy kids.

First off, they’ve both been flavored all week.  I don’t know why.  Every single day (in secret, probably in their closets where they like to hide from me) they took a magical mischievous pill and washed it down with a pound of Mountain Dew.  Then they covered themselves in cranky lotion.  It’s taken Herculean efforts to keep them even keel.

Second, Kelly came down with massive diarrhea on Thursday.  You’ve seen what I feed my children.  These girls can poop.  I have no idea how one tiny little body could have possibly held that much food, but Lordy Lordy, I think she pooped out a few missing DVDs.  Nope, the “S” to the refrigerator letter set didn’t show up.  The illness beset the child while both girls were…you guessed it…TAKING A BATH.  LOVER-LY.

They were in the tub in the morning because I made a batch of Goop.  After I cleaned up the dried cornstarch from the art studio  (foyer, but we tract home people like to put on airs every now and then), I defunct-dified the bathroom.  Long story.  Call me if you wish to know how it’s done.  Step 1: you’ll need gloves, bleach, a garbage bag, a bottle of vodka, a small statue of St. Anne, and a chainsaw….

For some reason, Sara felt the compulsion to join Kelly on the “how can we make Mommy throw up on her shoes” train.  She’s “not made it to the bathroom” (her words), 3x in the last 2 days.  That’s code for: I’ve been playing too hard to take the time to pee.  I know a UTI when I see one.  She does not have one.  She has a case of ants in her pants, as usual.  This small hiccup in the potty training chapter of life is easy enough, if not complicated by the fact that Sara is also too busy to WIPE.

WIPE, as in…WIPE.  Or flush.  Or wash her hands.  We’ve tried stickers.  We’ve tried rewards.  We’ve tried consequences.  We’ve tried burning germs in effigy on the front lawn to make our point.  What?  Like you haven’t tried it.  Today was the MOTHA of all sick outs.  I found Sara, standing in the bathroom, pants half on, covered in poo, along with her feet covered in poo, and her hands.  Unfortunately, my mind didn’t put it altogether quickly enough, and as I leaned down to help her, I sank my foot and entire leg in a wide streak of POO.  She made it to the bathroom in time, didn’t wipe, sat down on the rug to put her pants on, realized she was sitting in poo, and proceeded to make a mess trying to quickly get her pants on to cover up the fact that she didn’t WIPE.  WIPE!  It’s SO SIMPLE.

Right now the girls are in bed, where they are wide awake, and not making a peep.  I think they sense my immeasurable frustration.  I bleeped out half words all the way through teeth brushing; “disappointed…..frustra….OOOOOHHHHH……sooooooogroooooossssss you two…..unacceptab….NOT IN MY HOUSE….”.

Gotta go.  So much to clean up.  Or burn down, depending on your tolerance for absolute ick.  I want to autoclave myself and go to bed.