I haven’t posted in a while. Rest assured, it’s not because the chaos took a vacation. No—inherent in chaos theory as it applies to my life is an inverse relationship between the intensity of the chaos and my ability to document it.

The plague has descended upon MoTopia. Two weeks ago, it was Mason’s respiratory infection that landed him on antibiotics and steroids.

Last week, again it was Mason’s turn, with a stomach virus that manifested itself in the southern hemisphere. It hit on a Monday night and lasted for the next 4 days.

Wednesday, he woke up with his left eye cemented shut.

Thursday, right eye.

Friday, I thought all was well and sent him to school.

Saturday, still seemed fine, so we went to a birthday party at the Home of the Big Gray Rat. I am convinced that the entire place is an experiment in juvenile germ breeding, ChuckE’s own twisted plot of rodent revenge.

Saturday evening—Ri has two friends over to spend the night.

Saturday night—Ethan complains of a sore throat, which we attribute to the fact that he played Raging Ape for 45 minutes. If you’re not familiar with this particular family attraction, here’s the 411: a fiberglass gorilla, and two metal rods that vibrate to simulate some sort of scientific shock torture experiment device. The object is to hold on to the poles for as long as possible, despite the fact that you can feel your dental work beginning to work itself loose.

It amazes me that the same 10 year old boy who can’t down 2tsps. of bubble-gum flavored Motrin without 45 minutes of screaming, wailing, and thrashing can manage to overcome his aversion to discomfort and actually endure this torture device on the expert level. Maybe I should start spitting tickets out of my mouth when I need him to take his medicine….

Sunday morning: I am still thinking all is well. Mason is a little quieter than usual, but he’s probably still exhausted from running around ChuckECheese for 4 hours, right? My friend comes over to pick up her girls from the sleepover. She’s a baby person. She loves Mason. She needs very little encouragement to pick Mason up and hold him, which he takes full advantage of. Mason expresses his heartfelt gratitude by sharing his highest expression of esteem, a lovely raspberry blown right into her face. I comment that I heard recently that cold germs are not spread by spitting, because they are not found in saliva.

Sunday afternoon: Mason is yawning and clingy, too tired to eat, so I take him to his room to put him down for a nap. As we sit cuddled up in the rocking chair, he begins to cough. Not a throaty, respiratory cough. No, it’s more of a deep, gagging kind of—

I jump out of the chair and run to the bathroom sink. I’m a little too late, and I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve been covered in vomit. To tell the truth, I could have gone another 2 or 3 years.

Mason throws up a couple of times over the next hour. I call my friend to say, “guess what?” I figure I need to give her a heads up, because even though cold germs are not spread by saliva, I’m pretty sure that every other germ under the sun—including and probably especially the kind that make you throw up—are.

Mason and I snuggle in The Hubby’s recliner, the one I never liked and didn’t want to buy and he never sits in because he prefers the couch. But at this particular moment, it’s pretty comfy. We doze on and off over the next couple of hours.

Sunday evening— Ethan can’t swallow. His throat hurts. I shine a flashlight down his throat, because The Hubby says looking down throats with flashlights isn’t his department. I don’t see anything that makes me suspect strep. A little red, a little swollen, no Carlsbad-Caverns-worthy stalactites or anything. But he assures me that the absence of crusty white formations at the back of his throat is no indication of an absence of pain. He assures me of this not so much in words, but more in kind of a “OOOOwwwwwOOOOowwww….I hate my life… OOOOwwwwOOOOwwww” kind of way. 

At some point, as I’m making dinner for a bunch of people who are too sick to eat, I look over and realize that Mason-the-perpetual-motion-machine has been lying on the recliner completely motionless for a while now. Panicked, I rush across the room to make sure he’s conscious. When he sees me, the corner of his mouth barely pulls back into the faintest hint of what wants to be a smile. I pick him up, and we settle onto the couch with Riley, who feels shivery and weak, Ramie, who feels nauseous, and Ethan, who feels shivery and weak and nauseous and swears that he is going to rip his throat out with his bare fingernails.

He’s a trifle dramatic, that one….

I pour him a shot of Motrin and try my best to ignore him as he rather vociferously proclaims that he absolutely canNOT take the Motrin, that he HATES the Motrin, and that I just don’t understand the fact that the Motrin is so absolutely disgusting that if he tries to drink it, he will throw up.

I tell him to submit his flesh to his spirit and drink the medicine.

What do you know…he was right.

As I’m yelling, “Get outside—open the door and throw up outside!!!” I hear the cessation of footsteps that tells me he is frozen in place, and that no amount of yelling is going to unfreeze him. I keep yelling anyway, even as I hear the telltale “SPLAT” on the stained concrete floor. Meanwhile, the little lethargic bundle that is Mason is still snuggled up on my lap, so I can’t get up to look. Not to worry, though. I have Ramie. “Look!” she announces, “Ethan’s vomit made a heart!”

…to be continued. If, that is, I make it through the rest of the week….

Tags: Chaos, Chuck E. Cheese, germs, Motrin, plague, Raging Ape, sickness, stomach virus, vomit