300 Flushes

It's happened again. The stomach flu has come to town. Tristan had it Saturday but never threw up. It was the puddle in the diaper that tipped us off, but it's hard to tell with a 2 year old that has diarrhea if he's really sick or just ate a goldfish cracker that he's pried out from under the fridge. So generally if he's running a fever, we assume the former. This time we know it was the stomach bug that's going around because Jorma and I both got it. At the same time.
Monday evening I was cooking dinner for Amy's family, since she's about to give birth to her second child at any second, no really... and Jorma calls to say he's not feeling well and he's certain it's the ravioli that I made for dinner. I didn't eat the ravioli because Connor and I were going to eat with Amy, but I knew that it wasn't the ravioli mainly because I just knew. And I just knew it was a stomach virus. When Jorma called a couple of hours later to say he was now throwing up and Tristan was loose in the bedroom with him, I knew it was time to get home. Fast.
About that time I started feeling nausea of my own. At first I thought it was sympathy nausea, but then even before I got home I realized it wasn't. The only thing that comes on that fast is a stomach virus.
I made a gallon of Gatorade before I even went upstairs to check on Jorma because I didn't know if I'd be able to make it later. Because I could feel it coming on. Connor rallied for us, putting on his PJs by himself and putting himself to bed. I threw some PJs on Tristan and all but tossed him in the crib.
And two hours later I was puking my guts up. Violently. And then an hour after that. And then another hour after that.
Tuesday the kids stayed home from school, because neither Jorma or myself had the strength to get them there. Jorma and I took turns watching the kids and sleeping and then had "movie night" which is where we convinced the children very early in the evening, that it would be great fun to lay in the bed with Mommy and Daddy and watch Aladdin for the 900th time.
I guess in retrospect it could have been worse. At least Jorma and I were on alternating bathroom, whining and puking schedules. At least with both of us sick, laying in the bed like hound dogs on a porch, delirious with dehydration, we were able to crack a few jokes about how we both were really needing a colon cleanse anyway. Who says we never do anything together?