Updated: March 12, 2021
Originally Published: January 25, 2016
I spent the night battling an unrelenting wave of nausea and vomiting. In fact, I’ve dedicated numerous chapters in my unpublished work to my disdain for the stomach bug. I know I’m supposed to keep much of this material under wraps for my book, but here we are. During my first meeting with a publisher, when asked about my target audience, I replied, “Moms who can’t stand stomach bugs.” Unsurprisingly, they weren’t interested. I get it—there’s not exactly a booming market for literature aimed at “vomit-averse” readers.
However, as I lay here feeling miserable, I can finally voice my frustrations because, alas, my family has been exposed. Lockdown mode: activated. Code red. Bravo-Alpha-Romeo-Foxtrot…barf.
When I hear the words “stomach bug,” my reaction resembles a scene from a war film. Imagine a soldier delivering a grim message to a family—there’s panic, tears, and sheer despair. That’s precisely how I reacted when I received a call from daycare informing me that my son had been sick. The woman on the other end tried to calm me down, but I suspect she’ll think twice before breaking news like that to me alone next time. There must be a gentler way to inform someone that their entire existence is about to be upended, all because of a little virus.
As I lay in bed, I can hear the chaos unfolding beyond my door. My husband, Mark, is a true superhero. He juggles work, diaper duty, and meal prep like a pro. Yet, he doesn’t quite grasp the depth of my despair. The little ones keep sneaking into my room, despite being told to stay out. I hear a teenager exclaim, “You can’t go back in there! Mom is really sick!” I wish I could muster the energy to discipline that teen, but I’m too weak. Maybe I am dying. Perhaps it’s best they are warned.
Laundry is piling up, toddlers are wailing, and my head feels like it’s caught in a vice. Nausea is my only companion, and for this, I blame you. Yes, you—average-sized family. One or two of you were up all night, but you still had places to go and people to see. You limped into the church potluck looking pale and sweaty, eyes vacant. You placed your suspicious macaroni salad on the pristine tablecloth, and your children brought in those warm cookies (don’t act like you baked them). When I asked how you were, you responded, “Oh my gosh, my husband and the boys were so sick all night! But the girls were so excited about the potluck, and I had to sing in the choir and teach Sunday school. I’m feeling a little off, though.”
If I were more confrontational, I might have hurled that untouched monkey bread at you. But instead, I fled. I gathered my kids, snatched our jackets, and abandoned the casserole—I couldn’t take any chances. I had to protect my family. I signaled to Mark that this was an emergency. His jaw clenched as he surveyed the room; he didn’t bother to excuse himself from his conversation. Code Red was in effect. He maneuvered through the crowd, eyes wild, and even tackled a toddler to grab the diaper bag. The teens recognized the urgency and quickly followed suit.
As our van sped out of the church parking lot, I noticed one of the kids running after us. I shouted at Mark, “Just go, go, go!” We have others to think about. It’s survival of the fittest.