Monthly Archives: December 2007

Vacation?

Since I’m off on holiday break and have a bit of free time on my hands, I thought I’d spend some time catching up on my blog reading, which sadly gets neglected during the school year. Of course, since the holidays have just barely left us, only one of the blogs I read on a regular basis has been updated. I guess that’s the price I pay for having a bunch of friends who are also teachers and students, who also have two, and sometimes three weeks off of work. Instead of updating their blogs, like me they are enjoying their vacation.

Since I was already at the computer with nothing to do, I foolishly decided to check my work email. I’d told one of my fellow English teachers to email me if she was having any trouble with plans for one of her new classes. She’s a fairly new teacher and as I’d taught the class before, I offered to help.

When I logged in, I quickly noticed there were no messages from her. There were, however, emails from five different parents waiting for me in my inbox. I swear email is going to be the undoing of me as a teacher. Something compelled me to open the first email. It was from a parent I’ve been in pretty regular contact with. Her child has been walking the very thin line between passing and failing my class for most of the semester. Before the end of the last school day before break, she’s already emailed me asking for her child’s grade. Considering I’d had classes and meetings all day, I thought this was a pretty unreasonable request, especially since our grades aren’t due until after vacation. I was very nice though, and told her the grades weren’t completed yet. I kept it short and simple. The first email I had waiting for me was one yet again requesting his final grade.

I told her I could grade his essay, however, since my grades are weighted, I wouldn’t be able to give her the final percent she wanted. Our grading program is at school and I live a fair distance away and have a baby with no readily available sitter. The gas money and sitter payment, not to mention the two hours or so of my vacation seemed an unreasonable expense considering her child was failing due to his lack of effort.

The next message, which came on that same day, was from a parent demanding to know why her kid had failed a project. Before responding I decided to read the rest of my emails.

The next message was actually positive. It was a mom apologizing for her slow response to my email. She thanked me not only for the feedback I gave her on her son, but also for being a caring teacher. I smiled. It almost made the negativity and demands of the other emails fade away.

Almost.

Then I opened the fourth one. This mom berated me for giving a participation grade in my classroom. 

I breathed in deeply and stopped myself from writing a reply that reminded her participation is only worth 10% of his overall grade, and therefore could not possibly be the reason he is failing the class.

The final email, just about made me scream out loud. Luckily I remembered the baby was sleeping and choked on that scream. The last mom wanted to let me know just how unfair and unrealistic my grading of her child’s research paper was. 

 GRRRR!!!!!!!!!!

I’m not sure when it became ok to bother teachers on their vacations. I have a feeling it all stems from the widespread availability of the internet. In my 10 years of teaching, I have never once had a parent try to contact me at home to discuss their child’s progress or to berate my teaching. However, since email is so easy to use and computers are ubiquitous these days, it seems they have no problem popping on at any hour of the day, any day of the year, and spouting off at me about whatever is bothering me. All of these emails came between 12/22 and 12/28. All of them are on my holiday break. I’ve had parents (and students) email me at midnight and then get upset that I didn’t get back to them in time to answer their question. I’ve even had both parties try to cite me not checking my email or not responding in time as the reason they didn’t complete a project or essay.

I just want to know how in the world people think this is ok. I would never consider calling them or emailing them during their vacations in order to bug them about their jobs. I would never email my doctor and ask him for medical advice while he was on vacation. It would never occur to me that I should bother my banker at one a.m. because I noticed an oddity in my checking account. I wouldn’t call my mechanic on Sunday to complain about my check engine light coming on. I wait until these people are at work, during their normal business hours to ask my questions. Yes, it’s annoying at times, but it’s how the world works.

I’m sure these same parents don’t email their doctors or lawyers or mechanics at home to discuss problems they are having. I’m sure they would never blame their doctor not getting to their email in time for the reason their cold worsened. Nor would they blame the repair shop being closed on the weekend for the reason their car is not running. Why is it that teachers are not afforded the same courtesy? I know my father would never have thought to contact my teachers outside of the school day.

It seems to be yet another example of how educators get little to no respect in society. We are expected to give our time all the time, and then berated for our efforts. It makes it really hard to go to school with a positive attitude. I dread every time I see a new email from a parent or see the blinking light on my phone telling me I have a voicemail.

Not that it matters right now. My grades aren’t due until after vacation. I’m not stepping foot in that school or returning a single email until school resumes and I’m on the clock again. Bad attitude? Maybe. Good vacation? Definitely!

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‘Tis the season to be greedy little pigs

I don’t know what comes to everyone else’s mind when they hear the words “bring goodies to share,” but I tend to think this means I will bring some sort of tasty treat and in exchange, I will get to nosh on the tasty treats brought in by others as well. Apparently at my school, what this actually means is, “bring goodies and have them devoured by everyone lucky enough to have lunch before you while you open empty crock pots hoping someone has overlooked a meatball or left a wayward mini hotdog in some sort of syrupy sauce you’ll hate anyway behind.” A long sentence, I know, but that’s the sentiment at least half my staff abides by.

Every year we get a flier telling is it’s that time to try to get as fat as Jolly Old Saint Nick by bringing in treats to put in the lunch room. While it is never actually stated anywhere on the flier, this wreaks of pitch-in and when it was explained to me by senior staffers, it was supposed to be a sort of four day lunch smorgasboard. The first day of the first year I worked at my current school I brought nothing for lunch assuming there would be lots to snack on. I went very, very hungry. By the time my lunch came around, there were a few meatballs, a smattering of crackers with some cheese-like dip and some celery with some other sort of cheese-like dip. That’s when people in my lunch told me they usually hold off putting their food out until our lunch because the people in the earlier lunches devour everything and we are generally left with nothing. This annoyed me. I mean, I brought in a big batch of spinach dip for everyone to enjoy and by the time I got down to eat, I didn’t get a single spoonful. The next year I was smart and hid my food away until it was my turn to eat.

This year has been the leanest year yet. At first I thought everyone in the earlier lunches had to be absolute pigs. Then today I cut through the teacher’s lounge to get to my mailbox only to find a rather impressive spread laid out. I saddled up to the table to see what I could look forward to. To my amazement, although there were several dishes out on the table, all of them were already half empty. It wasn’t even 10 am and the giant pizza puffs were cut in half. The huge plate of taco dip was down to a few spoonfuls. There were only half a dozen tasty looking lemon bars. During the time I was in the office, I saw 10 different staff members walk out with heaping plates of food, all well before lunch. I figured out where all the food was going to.

What burns me up, is not just the fact that these people decided to eat long before lunch. It’s not even just that they took second helpings when they actually got to come down for their regulary scheduled lunches. No, what really just burns me up is the total lack of consideration for their fellow colleagues who are not fortunate enough to have an early prep period. By the time I made it to the lounge at lunch time, the only thing still on the table was a plate of some sort of nut bread. New food items had replaced the ones I saw earlier, but not a crumb from the massive trays I’d seen only two hours earlier remained.

One of my colleagues told me she’d made a huge batch of 60 deviled eggs. Luckily she was smart and saved some back for her own lunch period, because by the time I got down there, not a single egg was left. Now, our staff is only about 80 people, half of whom have lunch either with me or after me. I know everyone on staff can’t possibly like deviled eggs which means that people were not just taking one egg in an attempt to share, but what had to be two or three eggs. If it was just the eggs that might be one thing, but obviously they applied this “grab it while it’s there” philosophy with no regard to those of us who might also really really love deviled eggs to everything else on the table as well.

I happen to have an early prep and could have easily heaped a plate for myself, but out of respect to everyone else, I didn’t. I saved my appetite for lunch. One of my co-workers tried to brush off my annoyance by saying it’s supposed to be a graze as you go event and it was never meant for everyone to get something to eat. WHAT??? If everyone is supposed to bring something to share, how in the world is it ok for some people to not get something to eat in return? That isn’t sharing. And what about the people who don’t have prep until the last periods of the day? How is it fair for them? Just because they were randomly assigned a prep nowhere near lunch they shouldn’t get to partake in any of the holiday fun because a few people are greedy pigs who never consider others?

I know, I know, this is quite the rant. But total lack of consideration for others is just one of those things that burns me up. I thought the holidays, despite what religion you may or may not follow, were supposed to be about goodwill towards man and giving. I’m so sick of this selfish, gimme, gimme attitude. I guess I expected a bit too much from a group of teachers.

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Semi truckers should be banned

On the way home from work today I was almost run off the road by a semi. I realize that anyone who has ever driven a car has shared the same fate, but today it was particularly annoying. I’m not sure what it is about driving one of these behemoths that results in a total lack of vehicular courtesy. It’s as if drivers of these highway terrors completely forget that they too leave the comfort and safety of their cabs and 80,000 lbs. of pernicious momentum and brave the typical American highway, hoping that their fellow truck drivers will not randomly decide it is their turn to go and force them into the gleaming guiderail at their right. They are used to having everyone else on the roadways accomodate their full scale vehicular assault. I often wonder if those massive mirrors attached to their doors serve any other purpose than to reinforce the idea that they are so very very high above the rest of us and waiting to slowly flatten us whenever the mood may strike.

Truck drivers, it seems have less patience than my tiny son when he decides he is hungry. When the urge to munch hits him, he switches from sweet angel playing with his stuffed penguin Louie on the floor to a raging demon, yowling at the top of his lungs and flailing his head for attention. The indiscriminant lane changing of truckers, particularly when you are already occuping the exact space they are trying to squeeze into happens just as quickly. I realize they are massive, and it is harder for them to see, even with those truly gigantic looking glasses, but I would think that would cause a few more moments for pause in order to make sure a tiny Buick wasn’t going to be crushed as they hurled themselves into the other lane.

Alas, it appears that like my son, when a truck driver wants into another lane, he’s going to get it now, no matter who it hurts.

I was getting on the highway this afternoon, on my way home from work. Despite the fact it is a three lane highway where I get on, it always seems I’m vying for the far right lane with a semi. No matter how often exits come up, because they are large, and therefore in charge of all they survey, they never feel the need to get over. It doesn’t matter that the merging lane from my exit lasts for a few hundered feet at best. They refuse to budge. I’ve gotten used to slowing down in order to merge in behind a semi. It’s either that or smash into the guardrail, so I compromise. I pull in behind them and wait for an opening in the middle lane to speed past them.

Today was no exception. As I approached the actual highway, a blue cabbed semi with a long white trailer was just pulling up along side of me. I relaxed my foot so I could ease in behind it. This would have been no problem if the gigantic brown cabbed semi pulling not one, but two trailers behind it (one boasting a UPS slogan) did not, at that exact moment, for no reason apparent to me decide to leave the middle lane and take over the exact space I was occupying. There was no logical reason for him to  leave the center lane. There was also nowhere for me to go. I had to slam on my breaks as the lane gave way to dirt and quickly duck in behind the monstrocity to avoid colliding with the guardrail. Had my reaction time been a second or two slower, I might not be writing this.

I pulled around him a glared pointedly at his cab, which I noticed was occupied by not one, but two people. I was stunned. There was someone in the passenger seat who should have easily been able to see a rather large, silvery grandma car directly in its path. I’m sure not even a moments thought was given to the safety of anyone the driver was sharing the road with. A few moments later when the road opened up into four lanes, he did the exact same thing. Luckily this time it was not at the juncture of an on ramp.

My step-mother works for a trucking company and she always tells me to get the license plate number if I see any semis acting suspiciously. This truck didn’t have one. At least not on the back trailer. So instead I got his DOT number. I’m not sure if I can track him down or not. I’m going to ask my step-mom, but even if I can’t, I’ll post it here for anyone in the blog universe to see.

If you ever see a truck USDOT 121058 and you are in any position to do it harm, don’t hesitate. If he had the chance this Truckasaurus would eat you and everyone you love.

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Advertisers can go to hell

I despise jewelry commercials. I don’t actually mind the overly sappy TV commercials where the husband surprises his wife on their anniversary with the little box hidden underneath a napkin or even the current holiday one where the kids are retelling The Night Before Christmas to their mother while their father sneaks up behind her holding a pair of diamond earrings. These are cheesy, sure, but not offensive.

The commercials I hate are the radio ads. This year about a month before Father’s Day one of the local jewerly stores ran a series of radio ads where the confused female customer turned to the helpful owner of the company for advice on what to get her man. Yes, she actually spoke the words, “my man.” You see, she was in a quandary because she wanted to get him something he’d like, but she couldn’t afford anything really big. Luckily for her (and us loyal radio listeners), he had just the thing: wristbands made from sterling silver, platnum, leather and even rubber. Yes folks, that’s right, lovely black leather wrist bands (because a man would never wear a bracelet), sure to tell the father of your children just how special he is to you this Father’s Day.

Wait, what? When did Father’s Day become a jewelry holiday? Everyone knows dads get ties, junkfood and maybe, if they are really good, an uninterrupted afternoon of nothing but snoozing, snacking and football watching.

Ludicrous as this commercial was, it isn’t actually the type that bothers me. The ones that really rub me the wrong way are the engagement ring ads. The premise that every girl in the world is practically wetting herself waiting to get that giant rock on her finger is not only a fallacy, but simply insulting. I deplore one local baubble hawker whose ad begins with a retrospective from a woman who’s been dreaming about her wedding day since she was five years old. The male owner’s voice once again breaks through to remind men that all we women do is dream about our wedding day and if you don’t have that perfect ring, they’ll never be able to make a woman happy.

Now I know there are plenty of women out there who have spent hours, maybe even years dreaming about their weddings. I’ll admit that before I ever walked down the aisle, I gave it a thought or two. I had no idea what sort of dress I’d wear, or flowers I’d have, or cake I’d serve, much less the type of ring my fiance would buy me. I find it absolutely horrid how these jewelry commercials offer to simply sell the stone so that the poor diamond addled men won’t have to worry about choosing the right setting. After all, the wrong setting could end the marriage before it even begins. An engagement ring, chosen by someone who adores you as an expression of his love isn’t enough. Women are so obsessed and wedding driven that we have to chose your expression of love for you.

For many men who know nothing about jewelry and have horrible taste (or even more horrible fiances), this might actually be a reasonable suggestion. Choosing your own ring doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the little quip at the end that says something to the effect of, “never has three months salary meant so much.” Three months salary? Are they serious? I’m not sure who exactly came up with the idea that it was not only reasonable, but expected for men to blow 1/4 of their annual salary on an engagement ring, but man, he was a marketing genius.

Three months salary is more than my yearly mortgage bill. If my husband had spent three months salary on my engagement ring, I would have seriously considered saying no. Not because I didn’t want to marry him, but because I would have had to question his sanity. And wondered what else he was willing to throw his money away on. Now, I’m not saying go out and buy a cheap vending machine ring or anything, but if the average 20 something’s salary is around $30,000, after taxes that’s still going to be about $5500 on an engagement ring. In what universe is this reasonable? And yet these awful commercials dupe men into thinking that if they don’t buy that sort of ring, they do not truly love their wife-to-be. Afterall, the multitude of these ads remind men that jewelry is the way to “show her how much she really means to you.” Heck, if my husband wants to show me how much I mean to him, he can clean the house, or rub my back when I’ve had a rough day. Take the baby for an entire afternoon while my friends and I go out or just bring me a little bag of Godiva chocolates, a kiss and a simple “I love you.”

These wedding commercials, as annoying as they are, aren’t what set me off today though. Today, it was all about pearl necklaces. The commercial this afternoon, went through a rather lengthy description of the particular pearl strands on sale at some jewelry store or another. This alone is hardly worth noting. What annoyed me was the announcer revealing the price for a necklace and earring set of “only $100, a perfect stocking stuffer for the woman you love.” I don’t know a single person who believes $100 is a stocking stuffer. A present, sure, but a stocking stuffer? Even my in-laws, who are fairly well-off, don’t get each other $100 stocking stuffers. I don’t have a problem with buying a woman (or a man) who wants it a nice piece of jewelry for Christmas. If you have the money, heck, spend $5,000 on a ring or a necklace just to celebrate one holiday. But the assertation that a pearl necklace and earring set is a stocking stuffer is appaling to me.

Once again commercialism does it’s best to ruin Christmas and make us think it’s all about how much money we spend on each other.

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A rant deferred

I was going to rant tonight. I really want to rant tonight, but as I am so angry and annoyed that I might actually spill way too many details and actually run the risk of someone I work with reading this, knowing exactly who I am talking about (and want to cause physical harm to right now), I think I need to take a night off, eat one of those amazing Christmas brownies that arrived on my doorstep today, watch the final episode of Tin Man and knock a few research papers off the pile instead.

I will, however, leave you all with a thought and a question.

Thought: Guidance counselors are quite possibly the most useless individuals on the face of this planet.

Question: Has anyone out there actually ever received any real help or valuable guidance from one of these sub-human creatures?

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My domesticity

While pointedly ignoring my husband who’d just made a snippy comment at me over dinner, I found my eyes wandering toward the econo-sized Sam’s Club container of parmesan cheese. As my son was already in bed and I had not yet resolved myself to get over my husband’s fever chilled brainless comment, I took refuge in the label on the bottle.

This is not as strange as it may sound. I have always loved to read. Usually my preference is for books, although as I spent a good deal of my childhood eating breakfast alone and my mom didn’t like books at the table (which is quite odd as she was a school librarian for a number of years), I became a peruser of pre-packaged products. Like many kids in my generation, I am a cereal junkie. My mother has never been a morning person, so the idea of a hot cooked breakfast before school sent her into giggles. Instead I got a box of whatever cereal we had at the time, a carton of milk, a bowl, a spoon and a glass of juice. While she was off getting presumably getting ready, although I suspect catching a few more winks, I devoured not only my crunchy flakes and candied marshmallows but also every delicious word on the back of the box. Although I had no pen (another no-no at the table), I did the mazes, unscrambled the letters and answered riddles in my mind. I read and re-read long lists of ingredients, wondering what in the heck riboflavin actually was. I tried to remind myself to save the boxtops so I could send in for the cool t-shirt or toy on the back of the box, even though my mother almost always threw the box away before I could remember to remind her. Cereal boxes were my morning textbooks and I was a good student. On the rare mornings my mother actually scrapped together scrambled eggs or an omlette (usually on a Sunday before church since my step-dad was home and not a fan of cereal), I would still grab the box of my sugar coated love, if only to use it as a barrier between my plate and my step-dad’s, which always featured eggs smothered in ketchup. A sight, I might add that to this day still makes my stomach churn.

It didn’t stop there though. In the evenings if we had crackers, I would sneak the box onto the table under the guise of wanting more so I could look at the cool snacks on the back. I imagined myself at grown up parties eating little canapes (which I defined as any sort of mayonnaisey goop on top a Ritz cracker), sipping soda from those long glasses that made my mother giggle even harder than breakfast and talking to all her friends until the late, late hours of the night…10 o’clock at least. Not that my parents had these kinds of parties often. I actually only remember two, one for New Years and one for my mom’s 30th birthday where everything was draped in black, but the tasty snacks were directly off the back of a Ritz box, a suggestion I was quite proud of. I don’t really remember what they tasted like, but I loved every morsel of them.

All of this no doubt helps to explain why I was so interested in the cheese in front of me last night at dinner. This particular bottle of Kraft cheese had two recipes on it. One was for parmesan crusted meatballs and the other for a pasta bake that sounded a bit like a skillet lasagna. Both require few ingredients, require less than 10 minutes prep time and less than 30 minutes of cooking time. On a weeknight, that sounds heavenly to me. I decided to start speaking to my husband again when he became very intent on the recipes in an attempt to regain my attention. I filed them away in my “remember to try that file” along with a recipe for creamed spinach from the back of my Saltines box, one for peanut chicken off of the box of Thai peanut sauce I bought* and one for a ooey-gooey chocolatey-fudge dessert from a package of butter.

I know some people (Eee in particular), find it utterly eccentric that I not only read these boxes, but have actually grabbed a particular box of food based soley on the recipe on the back.** I think it is even stranger to her that I have on multiple ocassions I’ve gone so far as to actually cook these dishes. Some have been stellar hits, like the pasta recipe I got off of the package of grape tomatoes a few years ago and the crab cakes I got from the package of Stove Top I bought last year. Others, like the pasta recipe from the label off of my bunch of broccoli, have been disappointing at best. Then again, I willingly subscribe to two different cooking magazines. I’m not sure how a recipe found on a box of crackers, or potato buds or even Saltines can be any odder than one found in a cooking magazine. Still, I know it’s a little Donna Reed of me.

Speaking of which, I have to run. My Nestle Tollhouse cookies are going to burn if I don’t pull them out of the oven.

*Which I bought to make Thai pizza, a recipe I picked up from a friend which I think may have actually come off a package of peanut sauce itself.

**Only once, my current box of Saltines, which I chose specifically because I liked the last recipe I got off of one of their boxes and creamed spinach is a favorite of my husbands.

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The stomach flu or something else akin to death

I don’t like to brag (excessively), but I don’t throw up. This is a well-known and documented fact that generally makes my friends roll their eyes whenever I point it out. Much like that episode of Seinfeld, I can actually count the number of times I’ve thrown up since I was 14 on one hand. I made it my entire pregnancy without once puking. Heck, I made it 8 years without throwing up, and those years included 99% of my high school and college career. Despite drinking enough to pass out on more than several dozen ocassions, I’ve only ever vomitted after drinking once, and that was way after my college days. And it hardly counts as it was really more of spitting up some extra bile than it was throwing up.*

This weekend, however, broke a six year stretch.

On Thursday morning I woke up to the screams of my son in the next room. I knew something wasn’t quite right because usually he wakes up grunting, babbling or crying, but never outright wailing. I stumbled out of bed and headed to his room. I found the poor little guy standing in a what appeared to be a sea of puke. This was not the nice little spit up I’d learned to be surprised by every now and then. This was awful and covering everything. Since my son had had the baby equivalent of beefaroni the night before, it was not only smelly, but also bright orange.

I yelled for my husband and we spent the next 20 minutes cleaning the baby, his bed and everything he’d touched, including his poor little stuffed penguin Vernon, who was now also orange. I called my pediatrician the moment the clock hit 7:30 (her early calling hours) and was told that since I was bringing him in for a check-up anyway, he could wait until the afternoon to be seen. He didn’t have a fever and was perfectly happy, so she wasn’t too worried. I was already going to take off work early to get him to his appointment, so I just went ahead and called in to keep an eye on him. We spent a perfectly lovely day together and aside from him eating less than usual, I thought he was over it.

He woke up the next morning once again soiled by vomit. It wasn’t as extensive this time, but since he’d eaten chicken and country vegetables, it was decidedly chunkier. Ew! Each day he becomes more advanced and his excretions more vile. I took him to the sitter’s though because he still had no fever and was perfectly fine. Well, aside from some nasty runnyness from the other end. Delightful, I know. Luckily the sitter had to deal with most of it.

Dealing with a sick baby, while not pleasant, isn’t that hard. Especially one as cheerful as my son. On Friday as I drove my son home I was looking forward to getting him to bed early so that my husband and I could enjoy a well deserved night out. I had a sitter arranged so that we could attend a holiday gathering at my boss’s house. I know that might not sound like a great Friday night, but I actually like my co-workers and my boss is very generous with the booze and great food at his holiday party. Plus, in honor of a friend’s birthday we were all going to hit the bar after the party and continue to get into the yuletide spirit.

I called my husband to see if he could stop by the pharmacy on his way home and pick up a prescription for my son. To my horror, I heard a weak voice on the other end say, “hello.” I asked him where he was, “in bed. I’ve been throwing up all day.” So much for our great night out. I cancelled the sitter, but figured since my son would be in bed, I could still go and enjoy the night out. Sure, getting my son to bed all by myself would be a bit more difficult than I like, and it would be the third time this week, but who cared? I was going out.

Yup, that was my plan.

That is, of course, until my stomach started rumbling. I made it through play time. I made it through feeding time for my son. I even made it through his bath, but as I was fixing him his bottle, my insides betrayed me. Yes, that’s right, I lost the six year battle. Luckily I lost it right before I made my son’s bottle. I cried out for my husband who couldn’t hear me because he was in the bedroom. I called out again in between heaving. Finally, when I thought I was done and over the cries of my son who desperately wanted his bottle, I called out again. My husband got up, took the bottle and tried to feed my son. Unfortunately he accidently bumped the baby’s head on the rocking chair which sent my already agitated little guy into further hysterics. I marched into the room, grabbed the bottle and kicked my husband out.

I felt a little better. Not well enough for any sort of dinner, but ok enough to try to curl up on the couch and try to watch a movie. I made it through the movie. I thought I was fine. I even decided to brush my teeth in an effortt to kill the taste in my mouth. Big mistake. The second the toothpaste hit it was all over. Right back to the toilet. That time was the worst!

Luckily, that was the end of my puking. My poor husband did not fair so well. He was up at least four times during the night. He spent most of Saturday on his knees as well. I was merely weak, skaky and filled with random chills. I felt horrible. I was too weak even to change my son on his changing table. I had to set him on the floor to put his clothes on him for fear I’d fall down while standing.

The day passed mostly with me laying on the floor and watching my son play or with me in the chair, propped up and watching him play. Thankfully he’s a little trooper (and only 9 months old), so he didn’t really seem to care. My husband only left the couch to sprint to the bathroom. On Saturday I managed to choke down a dozen saltines, a cup of broth, a bowl of soup and one small cup of pudding. It wasn’t much, but it tasted like victory to me. My husband was on a broth and applesauce diet. My son, was almost completely back to normal. He even slept in until 7:30 Sunday morning.

Sunday was much better for all of us. My husband kept the little he could bring himself to eat down, but still felt bad enough to spend most of the day on the couch while I went grocery shopping and played with the baby. He gave it his best effort, but he still wound up exhausted and napping at 3pm. Poor guy. He’s not blessed with the iron stomach I have.

I’m hoping tomorrow will find us all 100% vomit free.

*I do have a dear friend who revels in the fact that he is responsible for this incident, mostly I think because of my bragging. Or the fact that he got me to drink more than should ever be humanly possible.

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