This weekend it was clearly obvious my kids had contracted some sort of stomach bug. Abby hadn’t been able to keep solid food down for a few days, but appeared on the mend when Jedi was hit with the rumblings of it Friday night. It was exiting from his other end, however, and since he’s fully capable of using the bathroom by himself, my exposure to his ordeal was thankfully limited.
Until I was jostled awake around 1 a.m. by the sound of his stomach expulsing all over his bed. And then again.
As the sole doting parent available, I went about my duty of comforting and cleaning his mess as he laid on the couch and complained about how he wanted to go back to sleep. It took everything I had not to fling the rag I had been scrubbing with at him. Except I soon had bigger problems. Namely, the bathroom sink drain that became clogged.
A moment of panic set in while staring at my predicament. And maybe some crying.
When I finally came to, I got out the plunger and went about an attempt at dislodging the drain as quietly as possible, since the last thing I needed was to wake the other two. In a sink filled with the nastiest, putrid water concoction. It splashed everywhere, a splatter film of the previous night’s half-digested dinner. With a stench to match.
Then, just when I thought this substance might be stuck festering in my sink until J returns home in 3 days, it miraculously unclogged. I heaved the biggest sigh of relief I could without breathing in before finishing his room the best I could at that time. Feeling dirty, smelly, and battle-worn, I was at last able to usher us all back to bed a traumatizing 45 minutes from when it all began.