By: Jamie Mitchell
Updated: Feb. 26, 2017
Originally Published: Feb. 26, 2017
It always strikes at the most inconvenient moments. Perhaps during a peaceful night’s slumber, on the way to a crucial business meeting, or smack in the middle of a family celebration.
“Mom!” a tiny voice whines, “I don’t feel so good.”
You roll your eyes, convinced your little dramatist is simply trying to dodge that morning’s math test. You reply with a nonchalant, “You’ll be fine.”
But just moments later, the sound of retching fills the air. Oh no.
You mentally scan your agenda and glance at the ever-growing to-do list. It’s official. The timing couldn’t be worse for a sick day. Ugh.
Maybe it’s just a one-off, you reason. Perhaps something they ate didn’t agree with them. After all, that soup did taste a bit off. You hold onto the hope that this will end with just your child being sick.
Fast forward six hours, and you’ve been the unwilling recipient of projectile vomit five times, completed three loads of laundry, and sanitized every surface in sight. You pray to every deity imaginable, hoping this nightmare ends here, knowing, deep down, that the odds of escaping this illness unscathed are slimmer than winning the lottery.
As the hours drag on, you try every remedy you can think of—oregano oil, apple cider vinegar shots, and even basking in the glow of a pink salt lamp, all in a desperate attempt to bolster your family’s immune defenses. You make four trips to the grocery store for saltines, ginger ale, and extra laundry detergent. The sick child is quarantined, while the healthy ones are banished to the far end of the house. You don rubber gloves and a face mask, sprinkling Thieves essential oil around in sheer desperation. Why not? It can’t hurt!
The next day brings more laundry—five additional loads, including the acrobatics required to wash the bedsheets on the top bunk. You down more apple cider vinegar, bracing for the inevitable.
Eventually, the vomiting seems to ease, and a flicker of hope ignites within you. But then, within mere hours, chaos reignites as one child fills a bucket while another rushes to the bathroom. You realize too late that you celebrated prematurely, and the universe has a wicked sense of humor.
Curse you, Rotavirus. You are the embodiment of all that is evil.
As you juggle laundry and comfort sick children, you cancel meetings and plead for project extensions. You lean on every last favor from friends and family. You even splurge on heavy-duty disinfectant from Amazon Prime, contemplating whether it can be air-dropped to your doorstep. A quarantine sign might be in order because this feels like a scene straight out of a biblical disaster.
Two days later, you have tackled roughly 27 loads of laundry, made 12 grocery runs, consumed 72 ounces of apple cider vinegar (straight, because you’re not joking around), and scrubbed your kitchen and bathroom multiple times. You’ve been splashed with vomit more than once, cleaned up after the kids, and uttered countless prayers.
At last, you see a glimmer of normalcy. Your household has been vomit-free for 15 hours, and the children begin bickering—an unmistakable sign of recovery. You glance at your overwhelming to-do list and vow that tomorrow will mark the return to productivity.
And then it hits. A low rumble in your stomach. Just gas, you think. But minutes later, you find yourself in the bathroom, overwhelmed and regretting your optimism.
Curse you, Rotavirus. Just curse you.
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Summary
This article humorously chronicles the chaos of dealing with rotavirus as a parent. It highlights the challenges of managing a household when illness strikes, the lengths one goes to prevent the spread, and the inevitable realization that sometimes, despite your best efforts, the situation spirals out of control.