Brunch is an amazing concept. I have also heard of "linner," but I like all of my midday meals to rhyme so I'm going with "dunch." Also, when you say all of the names of mealtimes in a row it sounds like a children's song. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, dunch, dinner, midnight snack... See? There's a definite ring to it and I can almost sing it in tune with The Sound Of Music soundtrack.
Anyway, it's flu season. Two nights ago one of my children exploded. This is not an exaggeration. There was puke literally on every surface within a ten foot radius of this child. I used this bout with the flu as a learning experience. I learned that I am not nurturing. In fact, I'm pretty sure using every expletive humanly imaginable while bleaching every surface in your home is the exact opposite of nurturing. My poor kid is puking her guts out and I'm in the hallway shrieking, "Oh, fuck... It got on my arm!!! Babe!!! Where is the Emergen-C?? I'm going to die!! How in the hell does puke get on the ceiling??? This place is a vomitorium!!!" It took me a minute to realize that I was being a brat so I went and apologized to my ashen face sickie and made her as comfortable as I could by handing her things to comfort her with a ten foot long pole.
Yesterday, the smell of bleach still thick in the air, she started to feel better and I realized I hadn't eaten breakfast, brunch, or lunch, but it wasn't quite dinner time. So, I made a quesadilla for dunch. It was delicious. It was also super cheesy. Mmmmm... quesadillas... And, I ate in two seconds.
Flash forward to work six hours later, and that over sized quesadilla was making the rounds in my lower intestines. I started panicking. I felt flush and I was positive I caught the flu. I was the only person who had contact with the flu juices that spewed from my child's once adorable face. She is now, in the famous words of comedian/actor Nick Kroll, forever unclean.
My skin made direct contact with her undigested after school snack. I started obsessively feeling my forehead and excused myself to the bathroom. Surely, that quesadilla was going to make a second appearance. I sat in the bathroom stall for a few minutes, and nothin'. I didn't want to leave the other waitress to do all of the work around the place so I pulled myself together, washed my hands, and started filling salt shakers and sweeping. Then, the other waitress asked me if I was ok. Big mistake, other waitress.
"I don't know. I feel sick. Do I look sick? Am I pale? Feel my forehead! Don't get near me! I need to leave!!"
She was so sweet about it and told me to just go home. Well, she was either super sweet or just wanted me to get the hell away from her. Probably the latter. But then, in an instant, my guts started feeling normal and I stopped sweating and I realized it wasn't the flu and just an ungodly amount of cheese that was making me feel icky. And then, for whatever reason, I thought this would be a good blog idea. I am realizing now that no one probably needs to read about my intestines grumbling at work and the internal paranoia I face each and every time one of my kids has yakked all over my life. But, you're welcome anyway.